CAVIAR 


GRANT  RICHARDS 


UNlVr.RSlTY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  Diteo 


c 


ki^  s,  >L^^ 


PR 


(J  ^^ 


a^c^S-/?/^- 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2008  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/caviareOOrich 


CAVIARE 


\j.jii 


*%s*. 


A   AVILD   KOSK   IN    A   HOTHOUSE 


CAVIARE 


BY 


GRANT  RICHARDS 


BOSTON  AND   NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

^Jje  Ritaerjiibe  prc?;rf  Cambriboe 
1912 


COPYRIGHT,    1912,    BY   GRANT   RICHARDS 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  September  iqis 


TO 

MRS.  CHARLES  BEDDINGTON 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I  — PARIS  AND  A  RAID 

I.  Very  Short;  the  Amiable  Charles  is  intro- 
duced        3 

IT.  Footpad  Gallantry 6 

m.  In  which  a  Good    Dinner    is   ordered   and 

EATEN 9 

IV.  The  Heroine  appears 12 

V.  In    which    Two    Frenchmen   are    taught  'a 

Lesson  and  Charles  begins  to  capitulate    17 

VI.  In  which   the   Capitulation  continues   and 

Plans  are  made 25 

Vn.  Quite  a  Long  Chapter,  ending  up  at  the  Ab- 

BAYE  AND  WITH  ChARLES  SUCCOURING   BeAUTY 

IN  Distress 30 

VTH.  In  which  the  Little  Blue  Turban  appears  45 

IX.  Still  in  the  Abbaye  and  passing  the  Time     .  52 

X.  The  Beautiful  View  from  SacrIi  C(eur     .      .  57 

XI.  The    Rue    Lepic,    a    Taxi-Auto,    and    Real 

Drama 64 

Xn.  Mr.  Gorham  explains 76 

Xni.  Perhaps  Miss  Gorham  has  Pneumonia     .      .    88 


viii  CONTENTS 

XIV.  The  Amiable  Charles  declares  his  Suit   .     92 

XV.  The  Strange  Disappearance  of  Mr.  Gor- 

ham 105 

XVI.  A  Beating  of  the  Air  116 

XVII.   In  which    the  Amiable   Charles   at  last 

LEAVES  Paris 120 

XVni.  In  which  appears  Sir  Peter  Bain,  Collector 

OF  Pictures 131 

XIX.  A  Hot  Bath  at  the  Hotel  de  Paris    .      .  139 

XX.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  prepares 
FOR  AN  Encounter  with  the  Goddess  of 
Chance 143 

XXI.  Cold  Feet 156 

XXII.  In  which  Charles  dines,  and  lets  I  Dare 

Not  wait  upon  I  Would 163 

XXni.  A  Little  Play,  Breakfast,  and  a  Justifica- 
tion of  Connoisseurship 167 

XXrV.  Night  Thoughts 186 

XXV.  In  which  is  demonstrated  the  Dulness  of 
Gambling,  and  an  Awful  Example  is  ex- 
hibited         191 

XXVI.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  gets  away 

with  it  " 200 

XXVII.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  is  carried 

towards  London 210 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  n  — CRESCENT  FORTUNE 

L  In  which  the  Amiable    Charles   opens  his 

Three  Boxes 217 

n.  Mr.  Pyeman  —  WHO  advances  nothing    .      .  222 

HE.  In  which  the  Mauretania  is  not  described  228 

rV.  In  which  the  Amazement  of  the  Amiable 
Charles  at  a  New  York  Hotel  is  not  made 
enough  of 232 

V.  Dead  Museums  and  Miles  of  Misery     .      .  237 

VI.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  takes  his  First 
American  Cocktail,  and  a  Person  of  the 
Story  reappears 240 

Vn.  Poor  Handful  of  Bright  Spring- Water       .  247 

Vin.  A  Little  Explanation 254 

IX.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  presents  his 
Letter  of  Introduction  and  goes  into  Wall 
Street 259 

X.   In  which  the  Little  Blue  Turban  proves  her- 
self A  Very  Mascotte 280 

XI.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  has  an  en- 
tirely   Novel    Sensation  —  and    one    of 

WHICH   few  of  us  can  BOAST       ....   28G 

Xn.  In  WHICH  THE  Amiable  Charles  refuses  to 
have  his  Breakfast  disturbed,  and  accepts 
AN  Invitation  to  Dinner 292 


X  CONTENTS 

XIII.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  receives  a 

Cable  and  celebrates  a  Fictitious  Birth- 
day BY  taking  Mr.  Capper  to  the  Wal- 
dorf        299 

XIV.  Begins  with  a  Return  to  Wall  Street,  and 

ends  in  the  Davison  Household        .      .  309 

XV.   "Old  Man  Pyle" 315 

XVI.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  searches  fob 

THE  Little  Blue  Turban 322 

XVn.  In  which  a  Manet  is  bought,  Mr.  Capper  is 
pleased  and  disappointed,  and  Mr.  Carl- 
INE  GETS  Charles's  Privileges      .      .      .  328 

XVlll.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  finds  Mr. 
Gorham  and  begins  to  unravel  a  Very 
Tangled  Skein 337 

XIX.  In  which  the  Tangle  is  unravelled  and  the 
Amiable  Charles  parts  with  Five  Million 
Dollars  as  if  it  were  Half  a  Crown    .  346 

XX.   Happy  Love  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens       .  353 

XXI.  A  Clearing  up 357 

XXn.  In  which  the  Amiable  Charles  is  told  to 
forget  Restaurants,  Travel,  New  York, 
Paris  —  and  apparently  succeeds      .       .  362 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Wild  Rose  in  a  Hothouse  (page  14)  .       .  Frontispiece 
Caerleon  at  Monte  Carlo  .......  144 

"Going  on  dropping,  is  it?" 272 

From  drawings  by  E.  Pollak-Ottendorff 


BOOK  I 

PARIS  AND  A  RAID 


CAVIARE 


CHAPTER  I 

VERY    short;    the    amiable    CHARLES    IS    INTRODUCED 

THERE  are  people  who  like  Paris  even  in  the 
winter.  The  Amiable  Charles  —  nearly  every- 
one knew  him  as  "the  Amiable  Charles,"  al- 
though his  letters  were  addressed  to  "The  Hon.  Charles 
Caerleon" — was  not  one  of  them.  It  is  true  he  preferred 
it  to  London,  but  that  was  not  saying  much.  London  he 
hated  nearly  all  the  time  —  disliked  its  muddiness,  its 
pallid  sun,  its  fog.  Perhaps  —  he  was  not  quite  sure  — 
it  was  bearable  in  October  for  a  week :  anyhow  it  had  its 
uses  then;  but  it  was  only  pleasant  for  two  days  —  one 
could  never  tell  which  the  days  would  be,  unfortunately 
—  in  April,  and,  intermittently,  during  May  and  June. 
And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  Paris,  which  he  loved  for 
many  months  in  every  year,  was  at  its  best  in  INLay  and 
June  too.  In  those  nine  weeks  his  was  a  very  divided 
allegiance.  He  would  be  in  London  for  the  Derby,  and 
in  Paris  for  the  Grand  Prix;  then  there  were  certain  per- 
formances at  the  Opera  —  in  London,  of  course  — 
which  he  could  not  miss;  but  he  would  have  to  run  back 
to  the  Place  Vendome  for  some  function,  and  then  again 
to  London  because  the  oeiijs  de  pluvier  were  always  in- 
ferior on  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  Really  he  should  have 
had  a  season  ticket. 


4  CAVIARE 

To-day,  February  9,  1912,  the  Amiable  Charles  was 
in  a  state  of  mind  that  belied  the  epithet  which  the 
affection,  the  observation  of  his  world  had  bestowed 
upon  him.  For  him,  he  was  in  a  rage.  Things  had  been 
going  badly  for  quite  a  long  time.  You  cannot  be  ami- 
able, not  really  amiable,  without  a  well-lined  pocket  and 
a  snug  balance  at  your  bank;  and  you  cannot,  unless  you 
are  either  a  worker  or  a  millionaire,  gain  and  keep  the 
reputation  of  being  amiable  without  in  the  long  run  get- 
ting an  unpleasant  reminder  of  the  transitory  nature  of 
worldly  possessions,  Messrs.  Coutts  had  sent  him  such 
a  reminder,  and  its  presence  in  his  pocket  "did  n't  help 
matters  any,"  as  they  say  in  the  States  —  not  that  I 
should  quote  the  language  of  that  imperfectly  civilised 
country  in  dealing  with  Charles  Caerleon,  since  if  there 
was  one  country  the  very  idea  of  which  he  abominated 
it  was  New  York.  You  must  not  protest  that  New  York 
is  not  a  country.  What  I  am  trying  to  do  is  to  reproduce 
his  habit  of  mind :  it  was  characteristic  of  him  to  think  of 
America  as  New  York  and  of  New  York  as  America. 

Charles  was  on  his  way  South.  To  be  exact,  he  was 
on  his  way  to  Monte  Carlo.  For  ten  years  it  had  been 
his  habit  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo  in  the  first  week  of  every 
February,  and  to  stop  in  Monte  Carlo  until  the  empti- 
ness of  hotel  and  restaurant  told  him  more  plainly  even 
than  the  calendar  that  Paris  and  London  were  thinking 
again  of  their  own  beauties.  But  this  was  the  first  year 
in  which  he  had  had  to  subject  his  person  to  the  discom- 
fort of  approaching  Monte  Carlo  from  the  cold  North. 
His  habit  was  to  encounter  winter  in  the  farther  South, 
—  in  Sicily,  in  Algiers,  in  Egypt,  —  and  then  early  in 


THE   AMIABLE  CHARLES  IS  INTRODUCED     $ 

January  slowly  to  wend  his  way  back  to  the  white  tables 
and  the  green,  to  the  little  town  where  he  could  sate  his 
two  cold  passions  —  his  passion  for  romance,  the  ro- 
mance of  which  for  him  the  symbols  were  the  next  sea- 
son's hats  and  frocks,  the  fall  of  the  cards,  the  roll  of  the 
ball;  and  his  passion  for  the  table,  the  white  table,  the 
white  table  where  he  would  sit  by  the  hour  and  discuss 
wines  and  salads  and  dishes  with  famous  maitres  d'hotel, 
and  where  sometimes  —  just  often  enough  —  he  would 
capture  the  rare  feeling  that  he  was  not  living  in  vain. 


CHAPTER  II 

FOOTPAD   GALLANTRY 

AND  being  on  his  way  South,  the  Amiable 
Charles  had  thought  it  necessary  to  stop  for  a 
few  hours  in  Paris.  Much  as  a  woman  might 
stop  to  buy  hats  —  and  in  the  same  place,  the  Rue  de 
la  Paix  —  Charles  Caerleon  stopped  to  buy  —  shirts. 
Just  as  he  held  that  plovers'  eggs  and  coats  and  the  opera 
were  best  to  be  had  in  London,  so  he  held  that  the  most 
attractive,  the  most  comfortable  shirts  were  to  be  ob- 
tained in  Paris.  And,  being  a  person  who  had  no  reason 
to  consider  any  other  taste  than  his  own,  —  J  had  for- 
gotten to  tell  you,  although  surely  I  had  implied,  that 
the  Amiable  Charles  was  unmarried,  —  the  hosiers  of 
Bond  Street  wooed  his  custom  in  vain,  and  regularly 
twice  a  year  he  would  spend  a  couple  of  hours  at  a  certain 
corner  shop  — 

But  Charles  was  not  to  visit  the  haven  of  his  taste 
uninterrupted.  He  had  left,  I  must  tell  you,  his  luggage 
at  the  Gare  du  Nord  with  his  man,  who  was  to  meet  him 
again  later  in  the  evening  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  first 
leaving  a  suit-case  for  his  master  at  the  Chatham,  where 
Charles  proposed  to  dress;  after  that  he  would  dine 
(but  not  at  his  hotel  —  oh,  no!)  i  and  then  rejoin  luggage 

1  Someone  or  other  may  suggest  that  this  parenthesis  rather  dates 
my  book.  Nowadays  the  Chatham  has  quite  a  good  restaurant  as  part 
of  its  attractions  —  or,  counting  its  grill-room,  a  restaurant  and  a  half. 
But  I  shall  let  the  sentence  stand.  You  see,  to  stop  in  a  hotel  and  to 


FOOTPAD   GALLANTRY  7 

and  man  at  the  Lyons  terminus.  Now  it  was  late  in  the 
afternoon,  the  night  drawing  in,  and  he  was  wondering 
whether  he  could  properly  order  shirts  in  the  electric 
light,  consoling  himself  the  while  with  the  thought  that, 
after  all,  even  should  he  stop  till  to-morrow,  Paris  might 
wear  one  of  those  fogs  which  with  her  are  becoming 
almost  as  common  as  in  London. 

He  had  had  an  aperitif  outside  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  — 
a  vulgar  custom  and  not  a  select  place,  but  the  corner 
of  the  Place  de  I'Opera  was  a  habit  with  Charles,  a  habit 
going  back  to  his  Eton  days,  when  its  very  raffishness 
had  appealed  to  him  —  and  now  sauntered  down  the 
street,  looking  first  to  the  right  and  then  to  the  left, 
wondering  vaguely  where  he  should  dine  and  what  he 
should  dine  on,  more  complacently  now  that  for  the  mo- 
ment he  had  forgotten  Messrs.  Coutts's  polite  letter,  a 
little  troubled,  perhaps,  —  at  the  back  of  his  mind,  —  as 
to  whether  his  coat  showed  signs  of  his  journey,  but  on 
the  whole  satisfied  with  himself  and  with  his  world.  At 
least  he  would  enjoy  these  evening  hours  even  though 
they  were  to  be  followed  by  the  stuffy  agonies  of  a 
packed  wagon-lit,  and,  later,  possibly  to-morrow,  an 
earnest  consideration  of  a  financial  position  which  it  was 
never  happy  nor  convenient  to  consider.  The  thought 
of  money  came  back  to  him  thus,  but  he  repelled  it, 
repelled  it  characteristically  with  the  sudden  memory 
that  at  the  Cafe  des  Trois  Vertus  —  yes,  he  would  dine 
there  —  was  a  certain  claret  — 

dine  out  of  it — well,  that 's  a  habit  of  life,  of  mind:  it  betrays.  It 
was  Charles's  way  of  seeking  adventure  —  only  eulinary  adventure, 
perhaps,  but  still  there  was  always  a  possibility  of  a  new  experience.] 


8  CAVIARE 

!!....?"/  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  I  am  very  sorry. 
It  was  my  fault  entirely." 

It  was  Charles's  pardon  which  was  being  begged  — 
and  well  it  might  be.  A  large  American  —  oh !  obviously 
an  American  —  large  in  every  way,  large  in  his  clothes, 
large  in  his  double  chin,  pink-faced  and  glowing,  white- 
haired  but  with  a  vigour  of  action  and  appearance  which 
belied  the  white  hair,  turning  to  look  appreciatively  at 
the  lines  and  provocative  carriage  of  a  modiste  whom  a 
parte  cochere  had  just  given  to  his  view,  had  walked  into 
our  hero,  walked  sideways  into  him,  and  had  as  nearly 
knocked  him  down  as  would  be  seemly  at  so  fashionable 
an  hour  in  so  fashionable  a  thoroughfare.  Had  he  been 
entirely  felled,  Charles's  equanimity  would  hardly  have 
recovered.  Fortunately,  his  hat  alone  had  touched  the 
ground,  and  had  suffered  little.  It  was  handed  him  at 
once  by  a  prompt  and  sympathetic  porter,  so  that  he 
could  afford  to  smile  at  the  stranger  and  put  him  at  his 
ease  with  an  assurance  that  no  harm  had  been  done. 
The  encounter  was  at  an  end:  the  American  passed  on, 
more  discreet  in  his  gait,  and  Charles  continued  his 
stroll,  considering  vanity.  Gallantry  and  white  hair 
went  ill  together,  he  thought.  .  .  .  But  then,  fortun- 
ately placed  himself,  with  the  health  of  thirty-three 
well-cared-for  years,  always  attractive  and  nearly  al- 
ways successful,  Charles  had  little  tolerance  for,  no 
sympathy  with,  footpad  gallantry. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN    WHICH   A   GOOD   DINNER   IS   ORDERED   AND   EATEN 

CHARLES,  bound  as  he  thought  by  the  necessity 
of  catching  the  train  to  the  South,  arrived  be- 
times at  the  restaurant  he  had  chosen.  As  the 
door  revolved  and  he  reached  its  warm  and  smiHng  in- 
terior, two  maitres  d'hotel,  recognising  him  with  a  flush 
that  might  pass  for  pleasure,  came  forward  competing 
for  his  custom.  Charles  always  treated  waiters  well.  It 
was  his  policy.  They  always,  in  consequence,  remem- 
bered him  —  remembered  him  in  the  least  likely  places. 
Once  he  had  attended,  at  the  request  of  his  sister-in-law, 
a  missionary  reception  where  a  cold  collation  was  to  be 
provided  for  the  delegates  from  Balham,  Darlington, 
and  the  other  sources  of  missionary  effort.  Charles,  pro- 
testing, was  ordered  to  eat  as  an  encouragement  to  the 
others  —  and  to  his  surprise  he  ate  well :  he  was  being 
looked  after,  he  afterwards  discovered,  by  a  waiter  who 
had  served  him  in  Rome.  Once  even  he  had  secured  a 
good  meal  at  a  Liverpool  railway  hotel  because  the 
maitre  d'hotel  knew  his  taste  from  an  acquaintance  be- 
gun at  Monte  Carlo  and  continued  in  Paris. 

The  Cafe  des  Trois  Vertus  is  divided  in  two.  One  en- 
ters at  the  apex  of  a  triangle:  one  side  is  for  the  world, 
the  other  for  the  half  world  —  or  so  it  is  said.  One  need 
not  ask  which  side  is  the  most  chic,  the  most  desired. 
Generally  Charles,  either  to  avoid  his  compatriots,  or  to 


10  CAVIARE 

feed  his  romantic  liking  for  large  hats  and  pretty  gowns, 
chose  the  right.  Had  he  done  so  to-day  this  romance 
would  never  have  been  written  —  or  it  would  have  had 
an  entirely  diflferent  plot.  He  chose  the  left  on  this  even- 
ing for  two  reasons:  that  being  in  a  hurry,  or  what  for 
him,  who  never  hastened,  was  a  hurry,  he  felt  that  all 
his  attention  must  be  given  to  plate  and  glass,  and  that 
he  had  a  slight  preference  for  its  head  waiter,  the  impec- 
cable Claude.  And  so,  surrendering  his  coat  and  hat  to 
the  brisk,  black-garbed  young  lady  of  the  cloak-room, 
he  sat  himself  near  the  door,  and,  glancing  round  the 
still  empty  restaurant,  turned  to  the  carte  and  the  choice 
of  his  dinner. 

Shall  I  bore  you  if  I  tell  you  what  he  ordered?  Six 
marennes  vertes,  potage  Jubilee  (which  he  liked  for  its 
delicate  liaison  of  pea  soup  and  consomme),  sole  Walew- 
sJca,  tournedos  Rossini,  a  quail  en  chemise,  an  artichoke, 
and  coffee.  It  was  a  meal  of  no  particular  distinction, 
but  Claude  took  the  order  as  if  its  choice  had  really  im- 
pressed him.  So  the  successful  maitre  d' hotel  makes  him- 
self! 

Then  the  sommelier:  "Monsieur  desire  le  meme  vin?" 

"Oui,  August,"  — and  August  knew  that  if  the  Haut 
Brion  came  well  to  the  table  there  would  be  a  special 
two  francs  for  his  own  pocket. 

The  meal  proceeded  with  leisurely  order.  Charles's 
one  eye  watched  the  revolving  door,  to  recognise  here 
and  there  an  acquaintance  of  last  year,  or  to  judge  of  the 
success  of  next  season's  fashions;  the  other  watched  the 
clock.  He  need  not  hurry  —  there  would  be  time  and  to 
spare  for  a  fine  de  la  maison  and  a  cigar. 


A  GOOD  DINNER  il 

And  it  was  this  uninspiring  moment  that  Fate  chose 
for  the  introduction  into  Charles's  hfe  of  the  flush  of 
real  romance.  To  him,  sunk  for  the  time  in  material 
joys,  caring  nothing  for  the  spirit,  appears  the  heroine  of 
this  story. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   HEROINE   APPEARS 

MY  chapters  are  —  I  know  it  —  very  short,  but 
on  that  fateful  evening  Charles's  moods  were 
short,  his  movements  a  little  hastened,  the 
wheels  turned  swiftly.  There  was  time,  he  thought,  for 
contemplation.  Little  he  knew.  And  little  at  the  mo- 
ment —  or  at  any  moment,  for  the  matter  of  that  —  did 
he  reck  of  the  future. 

Once  more  the  door  revolved.  Charles  looked  up.  A 
coincidence.  Here  was  his  American  of  the  afternoon, 
still  pink,  still  vigorous,  dressed  for  the  evening  with 
that  florid  good  taste  that  Fifth  Avenue  demands.  He 
was  followed  by  a  lady,  and  Charles  turned  his  head  an 
eighth  of  an  inch  to  see  of  what  stuff  she  might  be  made. 
Few  damsels  came  Charles's  way  without  being  subjects 
of  that  careful,  appraising,  yet  not  disrespectful  scrutiny. 
Few  resented  it  —  least  of  all  when  the  glance  was  con- 
tinued or  repeated.  Charles  in  his  own  turn  would  think 
always  that  his  gaze  was  unobserved  —  but,  is  n't  it  true 
that  for  such  matters  women  have  eyes  at  the  back  of 
their  heads.'' 

The  American's  companion  was  a  lady.  That  took 
Charles  but  a  second  to  decide.  And  in  the  same  second 
he  knew  that  she  was  pretty  —  yes,  very  pretty.  Later 
he  came  to  know  that  she  was  beautiful,  lovely  —  but 
these  were  qualities  that  he  had  learned  to  attribute 


THE  HEROINE  APPEARS  13 

slowly.  Women  are  deceptive.  For  the  moment  he  sat- 
isfied himself  with  thinking  that  she  was  young,  perhaps 
twenty-two,  that  she  was  good,  and  that  she  was  pretty, 

I  will  attempt  to  describe  her  to  you  —  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  because  it  will  prove  to  you  that  I  who  write 
am  no  woman  masquerading  under  masculine  pseudo- 
nym. A  small  head  set  well  on  shoulders  that  uncovered 
for  the  evening  would  surely  be  slim,  graceful,  and  finely 
drawn.  Hair  of  a  darkish  brown,  caught  up  too  loosely 
to  be  fashionable,  a  little  wayward,  perhaps,  ample,  rip- 
pling naturally  (Charles  thought)  under  the  broad  brim 
of  a  hat  whose  one  black  feather  betrayed  no  transatlan- 
tic origin.  Her  figure,  taller  than  the  average,  was  slen- 
der, with  waist  hinted  at  rather  than  expressed  under 
dress  of  white  lace  —  a  dress  cut  to  the  moment  of  fash- 
ion but  lacking  those  provocative,  insistent  graces  that 
mark  the  costume  of  the  young  Parisienne  who  frequents 
the  modish  restaurant :  in  other  words,  it  had  been  made 
for  a  lady.  From  her  neck  hung  a  string  of  pearls  — 
superb  pearls,  Charles  said  to  himself  at  once  —  to  where 
white  roses  lay  beneath  her  bosom.  I  must  content  my- 
self with  adding  that  her  little  feet  were  shod  with  white, 
and  that  white  gloves  could  not  hide  the  smallness  of  her 
hands  nor  their  long  grace. 

And  now  her  face.  Charles,  who  realised  at  once  that 
she,  too,  was  an  American,  congratulated  himself  —  in 
after  years  he  never  could  make  up  his  mind  why  his 
thoughts  had  taken  so  instantly  that  form  —  that  it  was 
neither  unduly  yellow  —  so  many  American  faces  are 
yellow  to  sallowness  —  nor  unduly  blowsy.  Blue  eyes, 
whose  lurking  laughter  corrected  a  rather  serious  fore- 


14  CAVIARE 

head,  looked  out  from  under  lashes  whose  length  and 
regularity  would  have  made  the  reputation  of  a  far  more 
modest  beauty.  Her  skin  looked  firm  and  soft  and  fine, 
and  where  it  curved  out  over  her  cheek-bones  its  colour 
was  of  a  rose-pink,  transparent — exquisite  was  Charles's 
word.  And  there  to  the  best  of  my  poor  masculine  abil- 
ity you  have  my  heroine,  Celia  Alison  Gorham. 

The  American  recognised  Charles  and  flushed,  bowing 
slightly.  A  table  had  been  kept  for  him  on  the  other  side 
from  where  Charles  sat,  so  that  as  he  smoked  and  sipped 
his  coffee  he  could  watch  the  pair,  wonder  who  they 
were,  and  continue  to  admire  the  soft,  appealing  beauty 
of  the  young  girl,  who  seemed,  he  could  not  help  think- 
ing, a  little  out  of  place  in  these  surroundings,  a  little 
as  if  a  wild  rose  had  strayed  by  some  accident  into  a 
hothouse. 

Let  me  pause  to  explain.  Charles's  character  had 
many  sides,  apparently  contradictory  sides.  It  chanced, 
now  and  then,  that  one  knowing  this  side  of  him  or  that 
would  swear  some  other  had  no  existence  save  in  the 
imagination  of  the  critic.  It  was  not  that  he  was  pro- 
found. Far  from  it.  He  was  simple.  But  because  he 
was  not  profound,  because  he  was  simple  and,  harm- 
lessly, selfish,  and  because  most  of  the  time  he  was  ab- 
sorbed in  his  own  affairs,  and  the  affairs  of  his  not  very 
important  friends,  and  his  own  clothes,  and  his  own  sen- 
sations, and  his  own  intellectual  interests  —  the  order  is 
intentional  —  because,  in  fact,  he  was  himself  and  not 
another  —  because  of  all  this  his  separate  friends  came 


THE   HEROINE  APPEARS  15 

near  to  quarrelling  about  the  manner  of  man  he  was.  He 
was  in  truth  the  man  that  his  education,  the  tastes  of  his 
first  mentors,  and  his  patrimony,  modest  and  yet  suffi- 
cient, —  sufficient  had  he  only  been  a  little  more  dis- 
creet, —  had  made  him.  No,  not  very  satisfactory  — 
except  to  his  intimates,  to  whom  he  was  loyal,  and  to 
himself,  to  whom  he  seldom  caused  disquiet,  his  con- 
science being  asleep  as  yet,  and  his  digestion  being,  as 
far  as  he  knew,  non-existent.  For  the  rest,  he  was  "good- 
looking"  in  the  best  English  way;  healthy-looking,  too, 
with  more  than  a  hint  of  pink  in  his  cheeks,  and  with 
clear,  candid  eyes.  Good  food  and  good  wine  —  par- 
taken neither  of  them  in  too  prodigal  a  fashion  —  do 
little  harm  to  the  candid  young  —  and  Charles  still  reck- 
oned himself  young,  still  cared  to  walk  and  to  swim,  and 
was  still  able  to  sleep  o'  nights. 

And  as  he  sat  in  the  Cafe  des  Trois  Vertus  his  mind 
wandered  this  way  and  that,  sensuously  rather  than 
happily,  pleased  rather  than  glad,  satisfied  rather  than 
joyful.  He  thought  at  one  moment  of  the  dark  murk  of 
the  London  he  had  that  morning  left,  of  the  depression 
that  the  drawing  of  the  winter  curtains  morning  after 
morning  in  his  flat  in  Mount  Street  brought  to  him,  and 
at  the  next,  by  contrast,  of  what  he  expected  to  find 
when  he  pushed  aside  the  curtain  of  his  sleeping  com- 
partment on  the  next  morning  under  the  Esterel.  Then 
his  errant  thoughts  wandered  back  to  the  claret  he  had 
drunk,  and  he  wondered  if  it  was  worth  while  to  ask  the 
sommelier  if  there  was  much  of  it,  and  he  remembered 
that  rather  than  Bordeaux  he  should  have  drunk  Bur- 


i6  CAVIARE 

gundy  this  evening,  since  there  was  no  Burgundy  worthy 
of  the  name  on  the  Cote  d'Azur.  Why  was  Burgundy  so 
good  in  Belgium?  That  clubbing  together  of  the  Flemish 
bourgeois  explained  it  all,  he  thought.  Then  back  his 
mind  came  to  the  table  opposite  him,  and  he  watched 
through  discreet  eyes  the  flush  of  interest  come  and  pass, 
come  and  pass  over  the  cheeks  of  the  lady  who  had  at- 
tracted him,  imagined  subjects  for  her  conversation, 
asked  himself  —  a  favourite  habit  this  when  feminine 
youth  pleased  him  —  what  her  mother  was  like.  .  .  . 

And  so  the  hour  passed,  and  Charles,  looking  at  his 
watch,  called  for  his  bill,  and  as  he  called,  glancing  after 
the  retreating  waiter,  he  observed  something  — 


CHAPTER  V 

IN  WHICH  TWO  FRENCHMEN  ARE  TAUGHT  A  LESSON  AND 
CHARLES   BEGINS   TO   CAPITULATE 

WHAT  Charles  saw  happens  not  once  or  twice, 
but  all  the  time  in  that  Paris,  or  not  to  be 
too  particular,  in  that  whole  world,  which 
finds  its  pleasure,  its  pastime,  in  public.  One  cannot  sit 
in  a  restaurant  or  in  a  theatre  and  expect  the  reserve  and 
reticence  of  private  life.  One  is  looked  at,  criticised, 
appraised.  A  woman,  —  her  age,  her  looks,  her  virtue, 
her  frock,  her  jewels:  all  are  discussed.  A  man:  someone, 
be  it  only  the  head  waiter,  looks  and  decides  —  decides 
all  sorts  of  things:  whether  you  will  be  worth  special 
attention  with  a  view  to  the  future,  with  the  idea  of 
turning  you  into  a  client  de  la  maison;  whether  your 
clothes  indicate  the  ability  to  pay  such  a  bill  as  should 
be  prepared;  whether  you  are  English  or  German  or  a 
rich  Brazilian.  Sit  alone  in  the  nearer  stalls  of  the  the- 
atre of  folly  and  the  appraisement  is  based  on  the  same 
values.  All,  or  most,  of  these  charming  young  ladies 
who  posture  and  prance  in  the  first  and  second  row  of 
the  chorus  wonder  for  which  of  them  you  sit  there,  to 
which  of  them  you  aspire.  .  .  . 

So  what  Charles  saw  was  not  unusual,  not  to  be  won- 
dered at,  not,  indeed,  all  things  considered,  a  thing  in 
such  a  place  to  raise  the  ire  of  the  average  man.  He  had 
seen  such  things  before  —  oh !  often  —  and  his  blood  had 


i8  CAVIARE 

not  boiled.  Rather — sometimes — had  he  been  amused, 
interested.  But  this  time  was  different  —  altogether 
different,  Charles  would  have  said  to  himself  if  he  had 
stopped  to  think.  But  he  did  not  stop  to  think  —  and 
so  the  mischief  began.  But  first  let  me  tell  you  what  he 
did  see,  or  rather  what  he  saw  and  heard.  His  table  was 
near  the  corner  of  the  restaurant,  the  next  did  occupy 
the  corner,  and  next  to  it,  at  right  angles  to  his  own,  sat 
two  Frenchmen  side  by  side,  raking  the  room  with  their 
glances.  They  were  fat,  heavy-coloured,  wearing  mus- 
taches that  looked  as  if  they  had  been  stuck  on  after 
their  faces  had  been  shaved  and  reshaved  and  oiled. 
The  blue  of  beards  that  would  not  be  repressed  shone 
through  the  flesh  of  their  heavy  jowls.  Unlike  in  every- 
thing but  unessentials,  they  still  appeared  as  if  they  had 
come  from  the  same  mould.  Both,  of  course,  wore  even- 
ing dress  and  soft-fronted  shirts,  and  one  had  a  velvet 
collar  to  his  coat.  I  wonder  if  such  men  are  not  nature's 
homage  to  art.  Rossetti  and  Burne- Jones  drew  and 
painted,  and  lo!  drawing-rooms  of  West  Kensington 
and  Fulham  were  filled  with  full-lipped,  large-throated 
damsels.  So  now  do  Augustus  John  and  Henry  Lamb 
alter  the  feminine  young  of  Chelsea.  Perhaps  if  Albert 
Guillaume  had  never  drawn,  France  might  have  been 
saved  such  men  as  Charles  now  watched.  He  had  seen 
them  look  at  each  newcomer,  had  imagined  rather  than 
heard  their  comments.  For  a  moment  between  two  sticks 
of  asperges  Lauris  they  had  discussed  him.  He  paid  no 
attention.  He  did  not  set  up  to  be  particular,  but  the 
type  displeased  him.  Now,  however,  they  had  found 
something  more  to  their  fancy  than  a  young  English- 


TWO  FRENCHMEN   ARE   TAUGHT  A   LESSON     19 

man.  They  had  seen  and  were  discussing  the  young  girl 
who  was  with  Charles's  American,  discussing  her  with 
that  ingenuous  lack  of  concealment  which  Frenchmen 
affect.  She  would  not  have  heard,  but  had  she  looked 
up  she  would  have  seen.  Fortunately,  however,  her 
companion  and  a  macedoine  de  fruits  held  her  attention. 
Anyhow,  Charles  thought,  she  was  a  child  and  would 
not  have  understood. 

There  is  a  type  of  Parisian  who  prides  himself  on  his 
enterprise  —  enterprise,  be  sure,  exercised  almost  inva- 
riably in  one  direction.  Unhappily,  the  men  whom 
Charles  watched  were  of  this  type.  It  is  a  defect  of  a 
quality  that  the  Latin  often  cannot  distinguish  between 
a  gentleman  and  a  cad;  and,  more,  that  one  cannot  often 
tell  with  convenient  readiness  whether  a  Latin  himself 
is  a  gentleman  or  a  cad.  The  distinction  is  drawn  far 
less  sharply  in  France  and  in  Italy  than  in  England. 
One  supposes  that  it  is  a  result  of  a  looser  social  system, 
of  grades  less  clearly  defined,  of  castes  less  in  number 
and  yet  merging  more  naturally  the  one  into  the  other. 
On  the  other  hand,  in  France  or  in  Italy  it  is  generally 
easy  enough  to  tell  immediately  that  a  lady  is  a  lady  and 
not  a  demi-mondaine;  seldom,  if  ever,  would  a  French- 
man make  a  mistake  about  a  countrywoman  of  his  own. 
So,  too,  can  he  tell  generally  that  a  woman  is  at  heart 
virtuous,  unapproachable.  But  when  he  comes  to  con- 
sider the  woman  of  England  or  of  the  United  States  he  is 
at  sea.  Largely  it  is  her  own  fault.  Her  clothes  have 
often  that  note  of  extravagance  which  he  does  not  asso- 
ciate with  the/cmme  du  monde;  and  her  very  frankness, 
her  courage,  deceives  him. 


20  CAVIARE 

The  Frenchmen  continued  to  look,  and  they  con- 
tinued to  talk  and  to  appraise.  Suddenly  one  drew  a 
gold-mounted  letter-case  from  his  pocket  and  took  out 
a  card.  Writing  on  it  a  few  words,  he  called  a  maitre 
dliotel  with  whom  evidently  he  was  on  terms.  I  confess 
that  Charles,  scenting  what  was  to  happen,  attempted  to 
listen  to  what  passed.  The  maitre  d'hotel  was  discretion 
itself:  he  did  not  turn  as  one  less  used  to  such  traffic 
might  have  done;  but  Charles  caught  a  glance  directed 
at  the  reflection  of  the  American  and  his  companion  in 
the  looking-glass.  Such  readiness  is  a  French  birthright. 
J    "Oui,  monsieur,"  he  answered,  " parfaitement." 

A  minute  passed,  and  Charles,  hoping  he  was  mis- 
taken, saw  his  American  call  for  and  pay  his  bill,  and  rise. 
For  a  moment  he  and  his  companion  waited. for  their 
cloaks.  As  the  man  is  helped  into  his  by  the  woman  of 
the  cloakroom  and  fumbles  for  a  franc,  the  maitre  d'hotel 
covered  the  shoulders  of  the  lady  and,  as  he  did  so, 
slipped  quietly  into  her  hand  the  card  he  had  been  given. 
Now  that  it  had  happened  as  he  had  expected,  Charles 
could  hold  himself  hardly  at  all.  Jumping  to  his  feet, 
he  crossed  the  restaurant  quickly  and  touched  the  Ameri- 
can on  the  shoulder.  What  he  was  going  to  say  he  hardly 
knew;  all  he  did  know  was  that  this  girl,  this  lady,  should 
be  protected  from  such  an  insult  as  was  offered  her,  and 
that  she  must  be  protected  without  a  scene.  Her  very 
innocence  saved  her,  however.  Not  looking  at  the  card, 
she  passed  it  to  her  father  just  as  he  realised  that  Charles 
was  speaking  to  him. 

"Poppa"  —  I  must  be  honest;  and  even  the  word 
^'' Poppa"  from  red,  full,  youthful  lips  has  charms  which 


TWO   FRENCHMEN   ARE  TAUGHT  A  LESSON    21 

the  printed  letters  could  never  convey  —  "  Poppa,  this 
waiter  has  given  me  this:  for  you  evidently,  or  in  mis- 
take." 

"One  second,  dear"  —  and  then  to  Charles:  "I  am 
glad,  sir,  to  have  this  second  opportunity  of  apolog — " 

"No,  sir;  it  is  not  of  that  I  want  to  speak.  The  maitre 
d' hotel  here  has  made  a  mistake.  Your  daughter  has  been 
given  something  which  is  not  for  her.  Will  you  take  it 
from  her  now  at  once?  I  will  explain  afterwards  if  you 
will  allow  me." 

The  American  turned  again  to  his  daughter  and  took 
the  card  she  held  out  and  glanced  at  it.  At  once  his  hair 
seemed  to  bristle;  thunder  descended  on  his  brow;  for  a 
moment,  so  rapid  was  the  flow  of  deep  red  blood  to  his 
face,  Charles  feared  he  would  have  a  fit;  his  jowl  hard- 
ened ;  something  primitive  surged  up  .  .  .  and  then 
suddenly  he  calmed,  turning  to  Charles  and  addressing 
him  as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to  shake  his  equanimity : 
"Thank  you,  sir;  I  am  deeply  obliged  to  you.  Perhaps 
you  will  add  to  your  kindness  by  taking  my  daughter  to 
our  car.  Alison,  this  gentleman  will  look  after  you  for 
one  minute." 

And  Charles  had  to  go,  had  no  choice,  although  he 
would  have  given  all  he  had  at  that  moment  to  have  sent 
the  child  off  with  her  father  and  himself  have  waited. 
That,  however,  was  impossible.  Above  all,  a  scene  must 
be  avoided,  or  even  argument,  till  she  was  safe  outside 
the  restaurant.  He  had  no  right  to  interfere  further; 
and  unless  her  father's  rage,  only  damped  back  moment- 
arily, Charles  was  sure,  did  bring  on  a  fit,  there  was  no 
danger  for  him.    Such  people  as  these  Guillaumesquc 


22  CAVIARE 

Frenchmen  were  not  dangerous  —  not  dangerous,  cer- 
tainly, to  an  Englishman  or  an  American.  But,  as  he 
escorted  his  charge  through  the  revolving  door  and  in- 
stalled her  in  the  waiting  coupe,  Charles  thought  furiously 
and  longed  to  know  what  was  happening. 

Not  at  once  did  he  learn.  Three  minutes  passed  and 
the  door  revolved  again  and  the  American  was  to  be  seen, 
being  bowed  out  as  if  nothing  had  happened  or  could 
have  happened.  And  Charles  almost  thought  that  no- 
thing could  have  happened.  But,  glancing  down  by 
accident  at  the  strong  hand  that  turned  the  handle  of 
the  carriage  door,  he  saw  that  its  knuckles  were  bruised 
and  marked  with  blood,  that  the  skin  was  broken.  It 
was  clear,  though,  that  whatever  had  happened  had 
happened  in  some  seemly  manner.  The  American's 
knuckles  might  have  suffered,  but  his  equanimity  re- 
mained undisturbed.  His  voice  was  unshaken  as  he 
turned  to  Charles:  — 

"Sir,  I  should  like  to  know  to  whom  I  have  cause  to 
be  grateful.  And  you  will  allow  me  to  give  you  my  card. 
We  are  stopping,  my  daughter  and  I,  at  the  Meurice. 
May  we  hope  to  see  you  again?  Alison,  my  dear,  Mr. 
Caerleon  has  placed  me  under  a  great  obligation  —  no, 
nothing  you  'd  understand,  just  now,  at  all  events.  Why 
not  ask  Mr.  Caerleon  to  have  lunch  with  us  to-morrow? 
Could  you  come,  Mr.  Caerleon?  At  half-past  twelve? 
Do  try.  I  have  an  idea  I  knew  an  uncle  of  yours.  Lord 
Bodmin,  —  a  regular  sport  he  was,  —  some  years  ago  out 
West." 

Of  course  Charles  could  n't  accept.  His  train  would 
by  midday  to-morrow  have  landed  him  at  Monte  Carlo. 


TWO   FRENCHMEN  ARE   TAUGHT  A  LESSON    23 

Indeed,  there  was  only  just  time  for  him  to  catch  it. 
Still,  he  was  a  quick  thinker.  That  reputation  he  had 
earned,  and  deserved,  at  school. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Gotham;  I  shall  be  delighted. 
I  shall  look  forward  to  half -past  twelve  to-morrow," 
and  closing  the  cowpe  door,  he  stepped  back,  and  went 
again  into  the  restaurant  to  pay  his  bill  and  to  get  his 
coat. 

There  were  still  such  signs  of  riot  as  the  hustling 
waiters  had  not  time  to  remove.  A  table  was  over- 
turned; an  ice-pail  lay  on  the  floor,  its  contents  and  those 
of  a  bottle  of  champagne  mingling  together  in  a  dirty 
puddle;  a  tablecloth  with  red  stains  was  being  folded 
quickly  by  a  waiter  who  deserved  praise  for  doing  an 
unusual  thing  with  the  air  of  its  being  a  daily  custom. 
He,  too,  was  not  to  be  disturbed.  The  two  ignoble 
warriors  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Charles  addressed 
himself  to  the  maitre  d'hotel:  — 

"Ask  for  my^bill  at  once,"  he  said,  "I  am  in  a  hurry; 
and  my  coat  and  hat,  too,  quickly.  And  now,  you,  my 
friend,  it  seems  you  have  been  let  off.  I  've  a  good  mind 
to  give  you  a  hiding  myself.  What  do  you  mean  by 
insulting  an  Englishwoman?  "  (Charles,  it  will  be  noticed, 
already  thought  of  Miss  Gorham  as  an  Englishwoman!) 
"What  do  you  mean  by  not  knowing  a  lady  when  you 
see  her?  I  've  a  good  mind  to  have  you  turned  out  of 
your  job  "  —  and  Charles  did  not  speak  at  random.  The 
patron  valued  his  custom  too  highly  to  keep  a  servant 
who  had  made  a  mistake  of  that  kind  if  he  could  please 
his  customer  by  dismissing  him.  "But,  after  all,  what's 
the  use?"  thought  Charles.  "The  poor  devil  only  acted 


24  CAVIARE 

according  to  his  way."   And  the  "poor  devil's"  reply- 
almost  amused  him:  — 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  monsieur.  I  made  a  mistake.  I  did 
not  know.   Never  have  I  made  such  a  mistake  before. 
How  could  I  tell?  I  did  what  I  was  told.  Another  time 
I  shall  be  more  careful—"    Charles  picked  up  his 
change,  and,  turning  on  his  heel,  left  him  still  protesting. 
Evidently  there  was  to  be  no  railway  journey  that 
night.   The  blue  eyes  of  Miss  Alison  Gorham  were  for 
the  moment  more  attractive  then  the  azure  skies  of  the 
South.    Charles  had  thought  quickly,  but  now  he  did 
not  think  honestly  nor  proudly.  Perhaps  he  was  a  little 
ashamed  of  himself.    Anyhow,  he  must  hurry  —  yes, 
perhaps  there  was  just  time  —  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon  and 
stop  his  man  and  rescue  his  luggage,  or  such  of  it  as  had 
not  been  booked  through  to  Monte  Carlo.   For  a  mo- 
ment, as  he  stepped  into  the  taxi-auto,  he  thought  that 
he  had  been  a  fool  and  that  he  would  catch  his  train  and 
would  telegraph  his  regrets  from  Marseilles.   After  all, 
for  what  should  he  stop  in  Paris?  He  had  received  Mr. 
Gorham's  thanks.  What  more  could  follow?   And  yet 
he  knew  that  he  would  stop  in  Paris,  and  that  —  well, 
he  would  for  the  moment  make  no  more  plans. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN    WHICH    THE    CAPITULATION    CONTINUES    AND    PLANS 
ARE    MADE 

THE  MEURICE  is  a  nice  amiable  hotel,  and 
Charles  was  in  a  nice  amiable  mood  when  he 
arrived  there  sharp  to  the  hour  the  next  morning. 
The  Parisian  sky  was  blue  and  there  was  neither  wind 
nor  fog.  Such  days  in  February  are  rare,  rarer  in  London 
than  in  Paris,  less  rare  in  New  York  than  in  Europe. 
But  they  do  happen.  And  when  they  happen  they  are 
days  on  which  one  is  destined  to  do  divinely  foolish 
things,  to  err  wisely,  to  make  love  with  indiscretion,  to 
sin  with  forgiveness.  All  Charles's  doubts  had  vanished 
with  the  night.  Sleep  brings  prudence,  but  sleep  on  the 
night  that  had  passed  had  given  him  no  fresh  misgivings. 
Since  when  had  he  slept  so  long  in  Paris?  Since  when, 
indeed?  Rather  his  habit  had  been  to  dine  and  to  linger, 
and  then  if  it  were  too  late  for  the  play  —  and  it  usually 
was  unless  the  dinner  was  bad !  —  to  visit  a  music-hall 
of  the  outer  boulevards,  to  visit  afterwards  this  restau- 
rant or  that  (or  both).  .  .  .  The  very  thought  of  such  a 
tour  had  nauseated  him  when  he  had  failed  by  one 
minute  to  retrieve  his  hand  baggage  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon 
on  the  previous  evening.  He  had  returned  to  the  Chat- 
ham —  and  he  had  sle|)t. 

And  now  as  he  turned  into   the   Meurice  Charles 
thought  only  of  his  hostess.    Truth  to  tell,  he  had 


26  CAVIARE 

thought  only  of  her  ever  since  he  had  tumbled  from  his 
warm  bed  into  his  EngUsh  cold  bath.  Even  perhaps  he 
had  dreamed  of  her,  and  of  impossibly  ugly  Frenchmen, 
and  of  damaged  heads,  and  of  .  .  .  No,  his  dreams  had 
been  a  medley  from  which  it  is  only  possible  to  recapture 
one  thing  clearly,  the  curiously  haunting  blue  eyes  of 
Miss  Gorham. 

That  charming  young  lady  was  not  in  the  hotel  to 
receive  him.  Her  father  was  —  and  for  a  troubled  mo- 
ment Charles  feared  that  the  meal  was  to  be  a  bachelor 
one.  But  it  appeared  that  Miss  Gorham  was  out  shop- 
ping and  should  have  been  back  half  an  hour  ago.  Her 
father  could  n't  imagine  (although  the  same  thing  had 
happened  nearly  every  day  ever  since  he  had  seriously 
noticed  her  existence)  what  could  have  occurred.  It  was 
such  a  pity,  he  said.  He  had  impressed  on  the  manager 
the  necessity  of  having  a  good  lunch,  and  had  said  it  was 
to  be  ready  exactly  at  half-past  twelve.  Now  what  would 
happen  to  the  homard  a  la  Newhurg  ?  Damn  the  homard 
a  la  Newhurg,  Charles  said  to  himself;  and  anyhow,  why 
order  lobster  in  Paris  when  they  could  give  you  cray- 
fish? And  while  the  father  talked  —  prattled,  rather,  if 
you  can  speak  of  so  gorgeous  a  mountain  of  flesh  prat- 
tling —  and  while  Charles  chafed.  Miss  Gorham  arrived 
—  arrived  radiant,  far  more  attractive  in  appearance, 
Charles  thought,  than  even  she  had  been  last  night. 
Personally  I  don't  consider  he  was  in  a  fit  case  to  decide. 
But  there  is  no  doubt  that  Celia  Alison  Gorham  did 
arrive  radiant.  Everyone  thought  so,  and  showed  that 
they  thought  so  —  from  the  manager  of  the  hotel,  who 
chanced  to  be  in  the  hall,  to  the  page  boy  who  swung 


THE   CAPITULATION   CONTINUES  27 

round  and  round  the  murderous  door.  Sunshine  entered 
with  her. 

Each  of  the  three  was  just  a  little  shy.  Presumably 
her  father  had  explained  to  Miss  Gorham  something  of 
what  had  occurred  on  the  previous  evening.  It  was  n't 
exactly  a  thing  on  which  a  well-brought-up  young 
woman  could  enlarge,  but  she  looked  her  clear  if  rather 
embarrassed  gratitude.  "Papa"  was  franker  in  a  more 
confused  way.  He  treated  Charles  as  an  old  friend, 
almost  as  a  friend  of  the  family.  Soon  Charles  began  to 
know  where  he  was,  or  rather  he  began  to  know  where 
to  place  the  Gorham  family.  Philadelphia.  Mr.  Gor- 
ham was  —  well,  he  had  been  in  trade;  exactly  what 
trade  was  n't  specified:  it  did  n't  matter.  Now  he  was  in 
street  railroads.  Charles  caught  at  vague  reminiscences 
of  articles  in  "  McClure's  Magazine  "  (a  rotten  place, 
America,  but  why  don't  we  have  magazines  like  that?)  — 
all  about  five-cent  fares  and  Wall  Street  robber-barons 
and  Widener  and  Elkins  and  franchises  —  but  his  memo- 
ries were  n't  clear.  What  was  clear,  however,  was  that, 
however  vicious  had  been  the  beginnings,  the  public 
over  there  had  extenuated  the  results.  It  might  have 
been  wicked  to  have  made  your  money  in  street  rail- 
roads, but  as  long  as  you  stuck  to  it,  well,  you  were  all 
right.  That  hasty  consideration  fitted  Mr.  Gorham. 
More  could  not  have  been  expected  of  Charles  —  or 
of  anyone  else,  English  or  American,  for  the  matter 
of  that.  Mr.  Gorham  might  have  made  his  money 
honestly. 

You  could  see  that  things  of  that  sort  never  entered 
the  daughter's  head.  She  drew  her  money  —  and  spent 


28  CAVIARE 

it.  A  charming  habit,  and  one  not  confined  to  the  young 
ladies  of  America.  Where  the  money  came  from  was  not 
her  business.  And  anyhow,  she  spent  it  well.  On  herself 
largely  —  oh !  with  such  success :  her  dress  to-day,  tailor- 
made,  severe,  was  a  dream  —  but  also,  it  was  clear  as 
she  talked,  on  others  when  she  had  the  time.  She  had 
interests:  she  could  talk  about  Matisse  and  about 
Masaccio,  about  Saint-Germain  and  Richmond,  about 
Marie  Corelli  and  John  Galsworthy  and  Arthur  Stringer. 
I  am  not  eating  their  lunch,  but  I  can  see  them  eat- 
ing it:  it  has  gone  to  my  head;  I  can  hear  what  they  all 
say  —  and,  well,  the  truth  is  that  Miss  Gorham  was 
really  and  truly  a  peach. 

If  anyone  had  told  Charles  after  his  luncheon  that  his 
hostess  was  a  peach  he  would  have  been  indignant  at 
the  combined  familiarity  and  vulgarity.  He  would  have 
jibbed,  quite  rightly,  at  the  word,  but,  if  he  had  stopped 
to  reason  candidly  with  himself,  he  would  have  confessed 
that  although  the  word  was  offensive  the  sense  was  cor- 
rect enough.  He  did  enjoy  himself.  He  forgot  all  about 
the  Riviera,  and  suddenly,  and  to  his  own  surprise,  as  he 
drank  black  coffee,  sipped  '48  brandy,  and  smoked  one 
of  those  long,  slim,  black  cigars  particularly  affected  by 
boys  and  Brazilians,  he  heard  his  own  voice  suggesting 
to  Mr.  Gorham  that  he  and  his  daughter  should,  if  they 
had  nothing  else  to  do,  dine  with  him  that  night  at 
Durand's  and  go  to  the  play.  Charles  had  the  clothes  he 
was  standing  up  in,  and  he  had  his  dress-clothes,  but  all 
the  rest  of  his  luggage  was  by  now  on  that  arid  Monte 
Carlo  station  crying  out  to  be  claimed.  Nothing  of  that 
sort  worried  him,  though.  He  was  caught  in  the  mesh  of 


THE   CAPITULATION   CONTINUES  29 

a  new  happiness,  something  different,  and,  luggage  or  no 
luggage,  he  was  stopping  where  he  was. 

"What  do  you  think,  Alison,  dear?  Can  we  accept 
Mr.  Caerleon's  invitation?  It  would  be  very  nice,  but 
what  was  it  you  asked  me  to  show  you?  Did  n't  you 
want  me  to  take  you  to  a  music-hall  and  to  supper  at  the 
Abbaye  de  Theleme?  That  would  n't  fit  in  exactly, 
would  it?" 

Charles  saw  through  the  disingenuousness  of  that  foot- 
pad gallant,  Alison's  "Papa."  In  the  first  place,  his 
French  would  n't  carry  him  through  a  French  play;  in 
the  second,  the  theatre  would  mean  an  early  and  hurried 
dinner;  in  the  third,  he  wanted  to  go  to  the  Folies 
Bergeres  and  to  the  Abbaye.  Charles  thought  it  likely 
(and  he  was  right)  that  Miss  Gorham  had  hardly  even 
heard  of  either  tumultuous  and  questionable  joy. 
Truth  was  that  Mr.  Gorham  was  one  of  those  timorous 
viveurs  who  wish  to  "  live,"  but  who  dare  not,  who  inves- 
tigate their  pleasures  with  all  their  women-folk  they  can 
summon  round  them.  I  don't  think  much  of  taking  one's 
wife  on  a  tour  of  the  boites  of  Montmartre  —  but  one's 
daughter  at  twenty-two!  Still,  it's  done! 


CHAPTER  VII 

QUITE    A    LONG    CHAPTER,    ENDING    UP    AT    THE    ABBAYE 
AND    WITH   CHARLES   SUCCOURING   BEAUTY   IN   DISTRESS 

THERE  are  so  many  Americans  in  Paris  that  one 
can  hardly  avoid  writing  of  the  place  in  diluted 
Americanese,  so  I  may  as  well  make  no  bones 
about  saying  that  the  fact  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  or 
affected  to  have  other  plans  for  the  evening  did  n't 
trouble  Charles  any.  Things  could  be  fixed.  And  they 
were.  Of  course  it  had  been  stupid  of  him  to  ask  them 
to  dine  at  Durand's.  That  admirable  and  admirably 
discreet  restaurant  was  no  more.  They  were  to  dine 
with  him  over  the  way  at  Larue's,  and  then  to  go  to 
a  compromise  in  the  way  of  theatres  —  one  of  the  new 
little  theatres  where  half  a  dozen  one-act  plays  en- 
abled one  to  choose  one's  own  hour  of  arrival.  Charles 
for  a  wonder  had  n't  been  in  Paris  for  several  months, 
and  so,  when  Mr.  Gorham  said  that  someone  had  told 
him  of  the  Theatre  Moderne,  the  maitre  d'hotel  was 
appealed  to.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  still  open."  One 
has  to  be  sure  of  one's  bearings  with  these  theatrical 
enterprises.  They  spring  up  like  mushrooms  overnight 
and  disappear  as  quickly.  This  one,  however,  seemed  to 
have  come  to  stay,  and  Charles  secured  a  loge.  After- 
wards —  well,  afterwards  should  look  after  itself.  He 
hoped  that  if  "Papa"  was  so  set  on  the  Mountain 
they  might  bring  Miss  Gorham  home  first.    Charles, 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  31 

like  all  young  rakes,  was  "all  agin  "taking  young  ladies 
to  such  places. 

Dinner  at  Larue's  was  good,  Muscovite,  amusing  and 
expensive.  All  that  I  need  say  is  that  Charles  improved 
the  occasion  with  Miss  Gorham,  and  that  he  won  the 
golden  opinions  of  her  father  with  the  food  and  wines 
that  he  had  ordered.  Such  knowledge  was  second  nature 
with  him.  He  was  to  feel  at  fault  later! 

I  wonder  whether  any  of  you  who  read  this  book 
have  visited  the  Theatre  Moderne,  and  whether  as  you 
entered  it  you  realised  what  a  warren  it  was,  and  what 
would  be  your  fate  if  it  caught  fire.  This  possibility 
really  did  take  Charles  by  the  throat,  as  he  went  up  the 
narrow  stairs,  surrendered  his  party's  hats  and  cloaks, 
and  went  into  that  tiny  hall  where  strapontins  effectually 
blocked  every  passage,  and  where  there  were  certainly 
twice  as  many  people  as  there  was  proper  room  for.  But 
I  must  hurry  over  this  episode.  For  years  when  Charles 
thought  of  it  his  flesh  would  creep,  the  blood  would 
crowd  into  his  face.  What  had  he  brought  them  to? 
Too  much  he  was  embarrassed  even  to  remember  that 
the  suggestion  of  the  Theatre  Moderne  was  not  his,  that, 
indeed,  he  had  told  his  guests  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  it.  But  still,  they  were  his  guests.  There  was  no 
getting  away  from  that.  And  already,  too,  he  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  that  he  was  intended  by  fate  to  protect 
Alison  Gorham  from  her  father's  carelessness.  Heaven 
send  she  did  n't  understand !  No  such  luck,  he  feared :  a 
young  woman  who  knew  the  ideas  of  Paris  as  she  had 
shown  at  lunch  that  she  knew  them,  who  knew  the  Rue 


32  CAVIARE 

Lafitte  as  well  as  she  knew  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  who  ad- 
mired Picasso  and  chattered  about  Colette  Willy  .  .  . 
There  is  something  disarming  and  wonderful  about  a 
young  girl's  disingenuousness.  Is  n't  it  Una  that  she 
reminds  one  of  now  and  then?  But  still,  he  did  n't  dare 
look  at  her  .  .  .  and  from  that  day  to  this  he  has  never 
dared  to  ask.  As  for  Mr.  Gorham,  well,  Mr.  Gorham 
slept. 

And  ultimately  they  emerged  —  safe,  Charles  said  to 
himself,  safe,  thank  Heaven !  His  vivid  imagination  pic- 
tured the  effect  of  a  fire.  The  staircase  would  have  be- 
come a  pit  such  as  that  into  which  they  drive  wild  ani- 
mals ;  that  window  giving  on  the  gallery  would  be  broken 
down  and  the  crowd  would  shoot  out  of  it  to  pile  into  a 
heap  of  broken  bodies  on  the  floor  beneath.  And  yet, 
Paris  prided  herself  on  her  civilisation ! 

Now,  of  course,  Mr.  Gorham  was  awake.  Now  he  was 
to  take  charge  of  the  evening.  It  was  to  be  his  call  now. 
You  could  see  that  everything  that  had  gone  before,  in- 
cluding his  sleep  in  the  theatre,  was  mere  preparation  for 
the  serious  business  of  nocturnal  enjoyment.  And  he  had 
only  just  returned  to  Paris  from  New  York,  after  a 
strenuous,  fighting  autumn,  an  autumn  in  which,  he 
proudly  told  Charles,  he  'd  succeeded  in  rounding  up  his 
enemies,  had  given  them  the  little  end  of  the  horn. 
Charles  began  to  think  he  would  n't  persist  in  his  pro- 
gramme of  taking  Alison  —  yes,  I  'm  afraid  now  if  I  'm 
to  be  honest  I  must  drop  ceremony:  Charles  did  so,  in 
his  mind  at  least  —  to  the  Mountain.  But  habit  was 
too  strong.  It  was  evident  that  father  and  daughter  did 
most  things  in  common,  and  although  there  were  signs 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  33 

that  Mr.  Gorham  would  n't  have  objected  if  she  had 
said  she  wanted  to  go  home,  he  had  n't  the  strength 
of  mind  to  suggest  it  openly.  Really  all  that  he  had 
wanted  was  a  companion,  some  kind  of  companion,  and 
since  he  had  Charles  his  daughter  would  no  doubt  be 
better  in  bed.  He  even  went  to  the  length  of  asking  her 
if  she  was  n't  tired.  Can  she  be  blamed  if  she  answered 
"No"?  After  all,  she,  too,  was  pleased  to  have  a  second 
escort.  She  did  n't  know  that  the  whole  excursion  was 
distasteful  to  him  —  or  if  she  knew  she  did  n't  show  it. 

Charles  had  been  a  little  wicked.  Hoping  that  the 
Mountain  part  of  the  programme  would  be  abandoned, 
he  had  also  another  string  to  his  bow.  It  was  Saturday, 
and  it  was  n't  likely  there  'd  be  a  table  at  the  Abbaye. 
And  if  there  was  n't  a  table  they  could  n't  stop,  and  if 
they  could  n't  stop  they  'd  go  home  —  and  then  he  could 
make  some  more  seemly  plan  for  the  next  day.  Of  course 
if  he'd  played  fair  with  Mr.  Gorham  he'd  have  told  him, 
or  would  have  offered,  to  telephone  for  a  table.  That 
would  have  made  sure. 

The  Cerberus  who  guards  the  iron  portals  in  the  Place 
Pigalle  recognised  Charles,  touched  his  hat,  and  admitted 
the  party  without  question.  The  entrance  was  flanked 
with  the  horrid  denizens  of  the  Quarter.  "  My,  but  that 
one 's  a  peach.''"  is  the  translation  into  a  kind  of  English 
of  what  Charles  heard  as  Miss  Gorham  passed  over  the 
threshold.  Some  people  were  not  even  being  allowed  to 
enter.  At  another  time  Charles  would  have  found  reason 
for  real  if  rather  unkind  pleasure  in  the  discomfiture  of 
two  gentlemen  from  the  English  Midlands,  with  their 
accent  thick  on  their  tongues,  who  had  money  and 


34  CAVIARE 

large  cigars  but  no  dress-clothes  and  not  quite  the  air 
that  could  propitiate  Cerberus.  Mr.  and  Miss  Gorham 
mounted  the  stairs  first,  having  to  make  room,  Charles 
noted  with  a  little  joy,  for  others  who  were  descending, 
bowed  out  with  the  mocking  servility,  the  insolent  cour- 
tesy, of  maitres  d'hotel,  who  were  saying  what  they  now 
repeated  to  Mr.  Gorham:  "No,  monsieur,  I  am  sorry, 
but  there  is  absolutely  not  a  place.  If  monsieur  had  only 
telephoned.  Yes,  there  are  tables  still  empty,  but  they 
are  engaged.  .  .  ."  At  that  moment  Charles  was  seen. 
"Ah,  Monsieur  Caerleon,  how  many  are  you?  I  have 
your  table.  The  table  you  like  —  "  and  Charles,  who  had 
kept  in  the  background  purposely,  fearing  such  an  effect 
if  he  were  seen,  found  himself  taking  charge  again,  fol- 
lowing in  the  wake  of  the  patron,  with  the"  Gorhams 
following  him.  Such  things  are  done  for  the  habitue. 
"Scoundrels,"  Mr.  Gorham  said;  but  the  urbane  Albert 
if  he  heard  paid  no  attention.  Pleased  to  see  an  old 
client,  he  fluttered  round  Charles  for  a  moment,  cigarette 
in  hand,  seated  the  party,  and  was  gone  —  to  welcome 
or  repulse  new  visitors  according  to  their  wealth,  their 
beauty,  their  usefulness. 

Charles  was  n't  really  happy.  The  Abbaye  does  n't 
provide  an  orgy  for  its  patrons,  but  its  incidents  are  not 
always  of  the  most  edifying.  He  looked  round  the  room, 
at  this  table  and  that,  at  the  gross,  overfed  men,  at  the 
honest  family  parties,  at  the  young  wives,  at  the  very 
obvious  cocottes,  at  the  healthy  young  Englishmen,  and 
at  the  tired,  pale-faced  South  Americans,  and  then  he 
turned  to  the  lady  for  whom  just  now  he  felt  himself 
responsible.  A  few  pages  back  Charles  likened  her  to  a 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  35 

wild  rose  that  had  strayed  into  a  hothouse.  I  fancy  that 
his  new  attempt  at  an  analogy  was  even  less  successful 
—  so  unsuccessful  now  that  I  've  forgotten  what  it  was, 
but  her  presence  did  make  him  honestly  uncomfortable, 
and  not  the  less  so  in  that  he  had  seen  half  a  dozen  people 
round  him  whom  he  knew,  men  and  women  who  would 
n't  understand  Alison  and  whom  (he  said  to  himself) 
pray  God  Alison  would  n't  understand.  But  theirs  was 
only  a  party  of  three  —  and  as  of  these  two  were  happy, 
who  should  complain?  Mr.  Gorham  was  as  happy  as 
he  could  ever  be.  Sowpe  a  Vognon  gratinee  he  had  ordered, 
and  some  1900  Moet,  and  he  looked  pinker  than  ever, 
more  successful,  more  satisfied.  His  eyes  were  narrowed 
to  slits  in  the  surrounding  flesh.  Here  was  real  life.  But 
his  daughter's  eyes  were  not  narrowed :  they  were  wide 
open,  round;  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  a  pretty 
excitement;  she  looked  curiously  here  and  there,  alert, 
busy  with  conjecture,  turning  to  Charles  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, and  then  fixing  her  gaze  once  more  on  the  tall, 
slim,  Spanish  dancer  who  was  dancing  so  ill  that  her 
friends  had  to  pull  themselves  together  to  remember  that 
she  could  dance  at  all.  The  artist  dies  in  such  an  atmo- 
sphere. A  good  chef  comes  to  London  and  is  ruined  in  a 
year;  a  good  maitre  d' hotel  goes  to  New  York  and  in  six 
months,  remonstrated  with  for  shaking  the  Burgundy, 
answers  indignantly,  "I  know  my  business!"  The 
young  Spaniard  knew  her  business  too;  she  even  knew 
that  those  front  teeth  of  hers,  slightly  divided,  had  their 
value  in  the  market  —  but  she  also  knew  that  not  often 
was  it  worth  her  while  really  to  dance,  really  to  abandon 
herself  to  the  moment.  But  if  to  discerning  eyes  she  was 


36  CAVIARE 

a  failure,  a  young  Javanese  or  Tahitian  damsel  who 
moved  sinuously  from  table  to  table,  taking  a  glass  of 
champagne  here,  ruffling  the  hair  of  a  dress-shirted 
satyr  there,  was  a  success.  Her  presence  alone  was  worth 
the  preposterous  price  of  the  soiipe  a  Vognon  and  the 
champagne.  Tahitian  or  Javanese,  she  brought  with 
her  the  air  of  the  South  Seas;  she  was  a  good  Gauguin 
come  to  life.  Where,  one  wonders,  did  Albert  find  her? 
And  where  will  she  go? 

Miss  Gorham  did  n't  know  enough  to  despise  the 
Spanish  dancer,  but  the  beauty  of  the  young  girl  meant 
more  to  her.  It  shut  out  what  was  ugly.  It  brought 
together  what  was  beautiful  in  the  room.  Charles  did  n't 
suspect,  and  her  father  could  n't  even  have  understood, 
that  while  she  sat  there  with  her  eyes  rapt,  with  her  lips 
slightly  parted  with  excitement,  she  was  making  a  little 
philosophy  for  herself  to  cover  this  kind  of  thing  that 
she  was  looking  at  for  the  first  time.  She  could  n't  see 
that  it  was  very  sad,  but  she  could  see  that  it  was  very 
bad.  She  could  realise  the  harm  it  was  doing,  the  life's 
blood  it  was  draining  away.  Surrender  oneself  to  that 
sordid  magic  and  one  could  never  again  be  quite  the 
same.  Keep  away  from  it  if  you  can,  she  said  to  herself, 
but  if  you  can't  keep  away  from  it,  keep  your  soul  away 
from  it,  surrender  your  real  self  not  at  all.  And  she 
looked  at  Charles.  .  .  .  "Ah,"  she  thought  to  herself, 
"how  I  hope  that  he  at  least  looks  at  it  as  he  might  at  a 
picture.  Manet  has  painted  such  things.  One  may  love 
Manet  and  not  be  soiled."  And  all  her  thoughts  showed 
perhaps  what  a  very  young  woman  she  was! 

Alison's  mood  was  soon  dissipated  by  a  little  comedy 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  37 

that  was  taking  place  at  the  next  table.  You  see  in  the 
fashionable  night  restaurants  of  Paris  one  is  n't  supposed 
to  feed  and  drink  reasonably.  One  pays  for  the  attrac- 
tions by  ordering  champagne  at  at  least  twenty  francs  a 
bottle.  Perhaps  the  regular  client  is  absolved  from  such 
a  tax  by  reason  of  his  regularity  or  of  his  distinction  — 
but  even  so  his  economies,  whether  they  be  of  purse  or 
of  stomach,  are  not  encouraged,  and  there  are  many  little 
ways  of  overcoming  them.  Now  next  to  Mr.  Gorham 
a  young  Englishman  was  sitting,  by  himself:  one  might 
properly  imagine  him  an  habitue;  he  knew  the  ways  of 
the  place;  as  he  ate  he  read  the  "  Lanterne  de  Paris,"  and 
his  supper  was  of  the  kind  that  was  obviously  ordered 
for  use  and  not  for  show  —  the  same  soup  that  Mr.  Gor- 
ham had  ordered  —  I  don't  want  to  speckle  this  page  with 
yet  another  repetition  in  italic  of  its  name  —  a  filet 
mignon  —  ah!  but  the  italics  come  all  the  same  —  and  a 
pear.  With  it  he  drank  whisky  and  soda.  So  far  good, 
lie  would  get  out  for  something  under  a  louis,  and  by 
the  two  facts  of  his  economy  and  that  he  sat  alone  the 
house  would  lose.  Still,  he  was  satisfied.  Soon,  however, 
his  supper  finished,  he  looked  here  and  there,  recognised 
one  dancer  and  then  another.  One  was  a  young  English 
girl,  with  yellow,  loose  hair  standing  out  round  her  neck 
like  that  of  a  little  child  who  has  just  had  her  head 
washed,  with  a  Russian  belted  costume,  bare  legs,  and 
high  red  boots  embroidered  in  some  Tartar  manner. 
She  danced  about  as  well  as  any  young  woman  in  an 
eightecnpenny  subscription  ball  in  the  Chelsea  Town 
Hall.  But  she  had  some  vague  youthful  charm  —  or 
she  had  had !  Anyhow,  she  knew  Mr.  Gorham's  neighbour 


38  CAVIARE 

and  ran  bird-like  across  the  room,  to  shake  him  by  the 
hand,  to  oflfer,  indeed,  to  kiss  him  —  an  offer  that  was 
smiUngly  declined.   "Sit  down  and  have  a  drink." 

"Please.  Oh,  yes!"  she  answered;  and  he  called  a 
waiter  to  demand  a  glass  and  stretched  his  hand  for  the 
bottle  of  whisky,  which,  as  he  was  a  client,  had  been  left 
on  the  table.  "  Oh,  no,  no.  We  dancers  are  only  allowed 
to  drink  champagne." 

The  young  man  swallowed  his  momentary  resentment, 
ordered  a  half-bottle,  and  wondered  how  he  could  have 
been  such  a  fool  as  not  to  have  anticipated  this  pleasant 
trick.  And  Albert,  as  he  distributed  souvenirs  of  the 
evening  in  the  shape  of  pretty  fans,  balloons,  and  huge 
useless  rattles,  noticed  with  an  instant's  satisfaction  that 
the  table  was  being'made  to  pay  for  itself,  that  bis  young 
women  were  doing  their  business! 

But  I  cannot  go  on  talking  about  the  Abbaye:  such 
little  comedies  are  so  common  on  the  Butte,  and  I  must 
push  on.  All  sorts  of  clever  people  have  described,  have 
over-described,  sometimes  with  open-mouthed  wonder, 
the  supper  places  of  Paris.  /  have  a  story  to  tell.  I 
have  said  that  Charles  had  recognised  acquaintances 
when  he  came  in.  Well,  there's  a  very  praiseworthy 
convention  that  forbids  a  man  accosting  a  friend  in  a 
place  of  this  kind,  in  any  place,  perhaps,  when  he's  with 
a  lady  that  is  n't  known  to  both  of  them.  But  one  can 
send  a  note.  And  that  is  what  one  friend  of  Charles's 
did,  a  man  of  no  importance  to  this  story,  a  young 
Frenchman,  whom  he  knew  well  enough  and  liked  well 
enough.  "  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you  back  in  Paris,"  the  note 
ran.  "Come  out  for  a  moment  and  tell  me  about  your- 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  39 

self."  A  waiter  brought  it  and  Charles  took  it  from  him 
not  unwillingly,  but  without  enthusiasm. 

"Young  dog,"  Mr.  Gorham  said  facetiously.  "There 
he  is,  Alison,  having  a  letter  sent  him  by  some  girl  he 
knows."  Charles  did  n't  think  it  worth  while  to  deny 
the  impeachment.  Later  he  was  sorry  he  had  n't.  It 
never  occurred  to  him  that  they  had  n't  really  seen  who 
had  sent  the  note.  It  never  occurred  to  him,  no,  not  for 
a  moment,  that  Alison  should  have  paid  the  slightest 
attention  to  what  he  thought  her  father's  silly  joke. 
And  so,  unsuspicious,  in  a  moment  or  two  he  excused 
himself,  looked  across  to  the  watching  Monsieur  Ber- 
thez,  nodded,  and  followed  him  out  to  where  the  cloak- 
room attendants,  the  musicians,  and  the  young  dancing 
girls  stood  waiting  on  events,  and  where  they  would  be 
able  perhaps  to  talk  undisturbed  for  a  few  moments. 

It  was  a  conversation  of  no  importance,  and  having 
exchanged  a  little  news,  and  having  made  a  tentative 
engagement  to  lunch  together  on  the  morrow,  Charles 
thought  he  might  as  well  seize  the  opportunity  to  wash 
his  hands.  Perhaps  Mr.  Gorham  would  have  the  cour- 
age of  his  programme  and  see  the  sun  rise! 

Now,  if  you  know  the  Abbaye,  you  know  that  from 
just  behind  where  the  musicians  play  there  runs  a 
narrow  passage  which  leads  to  a  cloak-room  in  which  in 
effect  dancers  and  guests,  whether  they  be  men  or 
women,  restore  the  ravages  of  the  night  in  one  almost 
promiscuous  medley.  It  was  so  to-night.  Charles  washed 
and  gingerly  brushed  his  hair,  and  as  he  laid  down  the 
brush  he  was  suddenly  conscious  that  something  a  little 
poignant  was  happening  just  round  the  corner  in  the 


40  CAVIARE 

passage.  Why,  turning  that  corner  on  his  way  back  to 
the  restaurant,  he  should  have  interfered,  he  never  quite 
knew.  But  there  are  some  sorts  of  things  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  man  by  nature,  by  training,  by  tradition,  does 
not  put  up  with,  and  he  had  more  than  ordinary  reason 
to  believe  that  something  of  the  kind  was  happening 
now.  A  young  girl,  slim,  a  little  pale,  a  little  weary,  — 
for  those  shadows  under  brown  eyes  were  not  of  artifice, 
—  was  being  in  effect  pinned  against  the  wall  by  a  man 
whose  every  line  was  a  betrayal,  whose  character  stood 
out,  who  looked  neither  a  gentleman  nor  a  man,  whose 
sneering  mouth  and  brutal  eyes  were  bent  on  his  prey  — 
for  prey  the  girl  was,  cringing  now,  almost  fainting, 
frightened,  fascinated  by  terror. 

"No,  no  —  please,  please,  no.  I  will  try  to-jnorrow. 
I  can't  now.  I  have  n't  got  it.  Let  me  go.  I  swear  — " 

"Yes,  you  swear,"  the  man  answered;  "you  are 
ready  enough  to  swear.  Give  me  back  now  what  I  gave 
you,  and  give  me  what  you  promised  and  I  '11  let  you 
go,  or  otherwise,  by  God,  I  '11  tell  him  —  Now,  give 
it  me  —  "  And  he  seemed  to  tighten  his  grip  on  her 
shoulder,  so  that  she  squealed  like  a  trapped  rabbit. 

Then  it  was  that  Charles  interfered.  The  girl  was  no 
better  than  she  should  be,  no  doubt,  —  obviously,  we 
should  say,  —  but  the  man  was  a  blackguard.  He  had 
been  too  wrapped  in  his  own  actions  to  notice  the  Eng- 
lishman's approach,  and  the  first  he  knew  of  his  pres- 
ence was  a  sudden  grasp  on  the  scruff  of  his  neck  and  the 
sense  of  being  sent  reeling,  of  falling  headlong  on  the 
floor.  Not  waiting  to  see  what  happened,  or  would 
happen  next,  Charles  turned  to  the  girl:  — 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS    41 

"Now,  my  child,  get  your  cloak  —  oh!  I  see  you've 
got  it.  I  '11  put  you  in  a  taxi-auto.  You  '11  be  gone  before 
that  brute  picks  himself  up." 

The  girl  gasped,  shivered,  and  looked  at  Charles. 
She  saw  he  was  worth  looking  at,  but  for  the  moment 
she  had  other  things  to  think  of  —  "  Monsieur,  I  can't 
go.  I  have  just  arrived.  I  have  to  meet  someone  here. 
I  must  wait.  Oh,  but  I  'm  afraid  — " 

"No,  don't  be  afraid.  I  '11  look  after  that  brute  there. 
He  shan't  annoy  you  any  more.  You  can  be  certain  of 
that." 

But  his  assurances  were  in  vain.  Suddenly  the  girl 
broke  down.  Hiding  her  face,  her  pretty  face,  in  her 
hands,  she  burst  into  tears,  tears  that  flooded  from  her 
eyes,  and  trickled  through  her  fingers,  while  her  slim 
body  shook  with  her  sobs. 

All  this  had  taken  far  less  time  to  happen  than  it  does 
to  write  about.  The  man  had  picked  himself  up  and  had 
slunk  into  the  cloak-room,  but  people  were  beginning  to 
pass  up  and  down  the  passage,  and  although  a  young 
woman  crying  was  not  an  unusual  event  (no,  nor  a  young 
man  comforting  her  either!)  in  the  Abbaye,  yet  Charles, 
Englishman,  was  hating  the  fact  that  there  was  a  scene, 
and  that  he  was  part  of  it.  One  thing,  though,  was  clear. 
The  thing  could  n't  go  on.   It  must  be  stopped. 

"Tell  me,"  Charles  said  —  "now,  pull  yourself  to- 
gether; grip  your  teeth;  stop  crying.  Tell  me  what 's 
the  matter."  All  this  in  French,  of  course.  "What's  he 
asking  for?  I've  got  two  minutes  to  give  you.  Tell  me 
what  it  is,  and  I'll  sec  if  I  can  help  you." 
"   Whether  the  young  woman  did,  in  very  fact,  pull  her- 


42  CAVIARE 

self  together  by  gripping  her  teeth  may  be  doubted,  but 
certainly  she  ceased  to  cry.  "I  will  tell  you,"  she  said. 
"He  isn't  my  lover,  that  man.  Word  of  honour,  he 
is  n't.  But  he  's  helped  me  with  money.  You  see  it  was 
like  this:  my  friend  was  away  in  America,  and  I  fell  ill. 
I  did  n't  know  his  address.  ...  I  had  to  sell  all  my 
things  and  I  had  nothing  left,  and  then  suddenly  he 
cabled  that  he  was  coming  back  to  Paris.  But  I  had  no 
clothes  to  meet  him  in  and  no  apartment  any  more,  and 
then  that  man  there  lent  me  money.  ...  I  promised  to 
get  it  from  Monsieur  Finot"  —  the  name  of  the  friend 
apparently  —  "  directly  I  saw  him.  But  I  did  n't  like  to 
ask  him  for  money  at  once.  And  now,  because  I  have 
n't  paid,  he  's  going  to  tell  him"  —  the  poor  thing  was 
getting  her  pronouns  mixed,  but  I  am  a  faithful- reporter 
—  "  and  he  '11  say  he  's  my  lover  —  and  it  is  n't  true.  .  .  ." 
Charles  interrupted:  "What  do  you  owe  him?" 
"He  gave  me  a  thousand  francs,  and  I  promised  to 
give  him  back  fifteen  hundred.   And  he  will  have  it." 

Now  Charles  was  young,  but  he  was  not  inexperi- 
enced. Really,  there  was  no  excuse  for  him.  He  had 
that  letter  of  Messrs.  Coutts  in  his  pocket-book,  but 
then  he  had  also  several  billets,  each  for  five  hundred 
francs  .  .  .  and  here  was  a  young  girl  crying,  miserable. 
Of  course  it  might  all  be  a  plant  .  .  .  but  he  did  n't 
think  so.  What  would  he  do  with  the  money  anyway? 
It  would  go  South  with  him,  and  if  he  had  luck  it  would 
never  be  wanted,  and  if  he  had  no  luck,  well,  then  it 
would  be  lost.  How  much  better  that  this  child  should 
have  it,  should  have  at  least  what  she  wanted,  the  sum 
she  named.  It  would  get  her  out  of  her  trouble.  After 


THE  ABBAYE,  WITH  BEAUTY  IN  DISTRESS  43 

all,  she  had  n't  appealed  to  him.  She  had  n't  asked  him 
for  money.  She  did  n't  look  as  if  she  expected  any.  He  'd 
brought  her  confession  on  himself.  .  .  .  Yes,  she  should 
have  it.  She  had  sweet  eyes. 

All  this  took  but  a  moment  to  ponder  and  to  decide. 
Charles  took  out  his  pocket-book  and  withdrew  three 
notes  each  for  five  hundred  francs.  She  watched  him, 
her  eyes  narrowing,  her  breath  coming  faster.  "Here 
you  are,"  he  said,  —  "or  no:  I  '11  give  it  to  him  myself. 
Wait!"  And  he  strode  into  the  cloak-room,  where  he 
saw  for  the  first  time  that  he  really  had  done  some 
damage  with  his  impetuous  attack.  There  was  blood  on 
the  man's  collar  and  blood  on  his  shirt-front.  Apparently 
the  poor  devil  had  fallen  on  his  nose.  However,  nothing 
really  serious  had  happened;  it  seemed  that  no  bones 
were  broken.  "Look  here,  my  man,"  —  Charles  ad- 
dressed him  in  his  most  English  and  most  arrogant  man- 
ner, —  "  I  'm  sorry  I  did  not  break  your  neck.  I  did  n't 
even  break  your  nose:  I  wish  I  had.  You  'd  better  go 
home  quick  or  I  'II  have  you  thrown  out.  But  first  tell 
me,  what  does  that  lady  owe  you?  What  were  you 
asking  for?" 

The  man  dropped  the  wet  towel  with  which  he  was 
bathing  his  bruised  nose  and  looked  at  Charles.  Some- 
thing in  the  Englishman's  eye  must  have  told  him  that 
he  'd  better  tell  the  truth. 

"Fifteen  hundred  francs.  That 's  what  she  owes  me. 
Stole  it  from  me  —  almost." 

"Stop  that!"  said  Charles.  "It's  no  use  lying  to  me. 
I  know.  You  lent  her  a  thousand  francs  and  you  expect 
to  be  paid  an  extra  five  hundred  for  the  loan  —  just  for  a 


44  CAVIARE 

few  days;  and  you  expect  to  be  able  to  go  on  bleeding 
her  as  you  do  a  dozen  others"  —  he  was  drawing  a 
bow  at  a  venture  here,  but  justly,  as  it  happened  — 
"for  just  as  long  as  she's  got  any  money  to  give  you. 
Well,  let  me  tell  you  that  it's  not  going  to  work  that 
way.  Here  is  your  fifteen  hundred  francs"  —  the  man's 
eyes  glistened  —  "but  I  'm  in  Paris  a  good  deal  and  I 
shall  hear.  If  ever  you  annoy,  if  ever  you  go  near,  that 
lady  again,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  body."  And 
handing  him  the  notes  Charles  quietly  turned  his  back. 
"Faugh!"  he  added,  and  blew  air  through  his  teeth.  ^ 
There  remains  little  more  to  relate  of  this  incident. 
Outside  in  the  passage,  a  dozen  paces  away,  the  girl  still 
stood,  leaning  against  the  wall,  shaking  with  sobs  that 
brought  no  tears,  sobs  of  terror.  "I've  paid  him," 
Charles  told  her.  "He  won't  frighten  you  any  more. 
He's  had  enough."  The  girl  interrupted  him  with 
thanks.  Would  he  tell  her  his  name?  Perhaps  she  could 
soon  repay  him.  No,  he  would  n't.  He  did  n't  care. 
He  did  n't  even  ask  for  hers.  "Go  into  the  restaurant," 
he  said,  "and  forget.  People  won't  notice  you've  been 
crying.  No,  powder  your  nose  here  —  don't  go  into  the 
cloak-room:  you'd  see  him.  .  .  ."  And  patting  her 
shoulder  with  a  kind,  a  fraternal  hand,  he  left  her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IN   WHICH   THE   LITTLE   BLUE   TURBAN  APPEARS 

CHARLES,  as  he  returned  to  his  host's  table, 
thought  very  Httle  more  of  this  incident.  True, 
it  had  cost  him  money.  Well,  what  if  it  had? 
He  might  so  easily  have  spent  it  less  well.  It  was  un- 
likely that  he  would  have  spent  it  better.  With  him  it 
was  not  a  case  of  easy  come,  but  it  was  generally  a  case 
of  easy  go.  Whence  the  perplexity,  that  little  cloud  no 
bigger  (at  the  moment)  than  a  man's  hand,  which  was 
at  the  back  of  his  mind.  He  made  a  little  grimace  to 
himself  and  after  that  troubled  himself  not  at  all  either 
with  the  lady  who  had  been  the  cause  of  his  loss  or 
with  the  loss  itself. 

But  the  Gorhams.  .  .  .  Back  at  the  table  Charles 
found  himself  in  an  atmosphere  a  little  altered,  a  little 
chilly.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  been  away  much 
longer  than  he  had  realised,  and  Alison,  who  had  n't  her 
father's  resources  in  the  way  of  bacchic  interest,  had 
remarked  on  his  absence.  Mr.  Gorham  had  asked  the 
waiter:  "Where  is  the  gentleman  who  was  here  just 
now  ?  " 

And  the  waiter  had  answered:  "Sir,  he  is  talking  to  a 
lady  behind  there."  An  indiscretion,  of  course.  Such 
things  don't,  should  n't  happen  in  Paris.  Pauvre  gargon  I 
He  is  no  longer  employed  at  the  Abbaye. 

Mr.  Gorham,  I  fear,  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course, 


46  CAVIARE 

but  alas !  Alison  heard  both  question  and  answer.  Now, 
let  us  do  her  justice.  Not  for  a  moment  would  she  then, 
or  before,  have  acknowledged  to  herself  any  unusual,  any 
undue,  interest  in  her  father's  guest.  She  even  thought 
of  him  always  as  her  father's  guest,  his  friend  —  or  she 
thought  she  did.  But  she  did  resent  his  going  off  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  —  more  perhaps  —  and  talking  to 
some  woman.  She  said  to  herself  that  it  was  n't  quite 
the  thing  to  do.  A  sense  of  resentment  rose  like  river 
mist.  Why  did  Mr.  Caerleon  know  this  place  so  well? 
Why  was  he  received  as  an  accustomed  guest?  Why 
could  n't  he  have  waited  till  she  and  her  father  had  gone 
home? 

And  then  Charles  arrived  —  to  be  greeted  by  Mr. 
Gorham  with  a  facetious  "Oh,  we  know  wha,t' you  've 
been  doing"  —  a  remark  to  which  Charles  attached  no 
kind  of  importance,  or  he  might  have  gone  out  of  his 
way  to  add  to  his  conventional  excuses  for  his  absence. 
Nor  did  he  realise  why  Alison  turned  her  shoulder  on 
him  and  seemed  to  be  contemplating  the  orchestra.  As 
I  have  said,  he  thought  first  that  the  atmosphere  was  a 
little  altered  .  .  .  but  that  seemed  impossible. 

Alison  was  not  contemplating  the  orchestra,  but  she 
was  looking  towards  its  corner.  Her  young  heart  was 
filled  with  an  angry  curiosity  to  see  the  cause  of  her 
resentment.  She  had  seen  Charles  come  out  of  the  pass- 
age, and  she  had  as  yet  seen  no  woman  come  out.  She 
wanted  to  know  who  had  kept  him.  Not  that  she  really 
cared.  Pure  curiosity,  of  course.  But  there  it  was:  she 
would  like  to  see. 

She  did  not  have  long  to  wait.    Her  intuition  would 


THE    LITTLE   BLUE   TURBAN   APPEARS      47 

have  told  her,  even  if  the  young  girl  who  emerged,  radi- 
ant now,  from  the  cloak-room  had  n't,  to  the  sharp  eyes 
of  a  girl,  given  herself  away  by  looking  at  every  other 
table  save  that  at  which  Charles  sat  —  and  then  one 
second  later  looking  at  that  in  the  mirror  at  her  back. 
But  her  gaze,  Alison  saw,  was  not  provocative.  It  was 
not  friendly.  Rather  it  seemed  sad.  And  that  possible 
sadness  Alison  misread. 

The  young  girl  —  for  she  was  young  enough  Alison 
saw  at  once:  much  of  an  age  with  herself  —  stood  for 
some  minutes  searching  the  room  as  if  for  a  friend,  and 
while  she  searched  Alison  watched  her,  and  watching, 
the  young  American's  depression  deepened,  her  resent- 
ment grew.  Who  was  this  girl  who  stood  in  such  a  scene 
with  such  assurance,  such  brave  assurance?  She  was 
mistress  of  herself,  whoever  she  was,  and  mistress  of  the 
servants  in  the  room,  assured,  courageous,  armed.  If 
she  represented  that  which  good  women  feared,  was  she 
not  sure  of  victory?  Where,  Alison  asked  herself,  among 
her  school  friends,  the  friends  she  had  left  in  Philadel- 
phia, whom  she  had  made  in  Europe,  was  there  so  much 
easy  beauty,  so  much  vitality,  so  ready  a  carriage? 

And,  in  truth,  Charles's  protegee  might  have  been 
held  to  do  his  taste  some  credit.  Figure  to  yourself  a 
young  girl,  really  a  young  girl,  not  so  very  slim,  not  tall, 
dressed  simply  for  the  evening  in  lemon  yellow  soft  silk 
open  at  the  neck,  and  with  on  her  head  the  most  bewitch- 
ing, the  cutest  little  dark  blue  turban,  a  real  turban, 
fitting  the  head  closely,  following  its  lines,  from  which 
at  the  most  provocative  angle  flowered  a  white  aigrette. 
Under  the  turban  yellow  hair  and  brown  eyes  and  teeth 


48  CAVIARE 

regular  as  a  string  of  pearls  (shaming  indeed  her  neck's 
string  of  real  pearls  that  were  nothing  particular  to 
boast  about).  Her  lips  were  slightly  parted:  they  had 
the  shape  poets  write  of.  Artifice,  Alison  was  able  to 
assure  herself  — and  justly:  artifice  had  had  a  hand, 
but  it  had  made  no  attempt  at  concealment;  it  had  no 
shame  and  the  more  beauty.  And  her  face.''  Yes,  dear 
lady,  powder  was  thick  upon  it.  At  one  moment  it 
looked  dead  white;  at  another  it  carried,  shone  with, 
all  the  gay  translucent  colours  of  happiness  and  health. 
The  truth  is  that  the  young  lady  had  the  art. 

In  a  few  moments  she  seemed,  this  stranger,  to  de- 
cide to  go  to  a  table  which  it  appeared  had  been  kept  for 
her,  or  for  some  friend  of  hers  who  had  not  arrived,  and 
she  came  across  the  room,  passing  close  to  where  the 
Gorhams  sat.  Almost  Alison  would  have  preferred  her 
to  have  looked  at  Charles  and  to  have  smiled.  That  she 
might  have  forgiven.  But  she  could  not  forgive  the  fact 
that  she  averted  her  eyes;  and  then,  looking  at  Charles, 
Alison  thought  that  he,  too,  was  ill  at  ease.  Pure  imag- 
ination in  his  case,  poor  fellow.  He  knew  nothing  of  the 
return  of  his  young  friend;  he  had  n't  seen  her:  he  was 
listening  —  with  his  eyes  only  —  to  Mr.  Gorham  — 
looking  at  nothing,  and  if  the  truth  were  known,  wonder- 
ing whether  should  the  morrow  be  fine  he  could  not  take 
both  his  host  and  hostess  en  auto  to  Barbizon  to  lunch, 
and  escape  even  for  half  an  hour  with  Alison  into  the 
woods. 

By  how  many  riotous  Saturday  nights,  by  how  many 
others,  was  this  removed  from  being  Charles's  first 


THE    LITTLE   BLUE   TURBAN   APPEARS       49 

supper  at  the  Abbaye.  And  yet  it  alone  was  to  remain 
in  his  mind.  All  those  things  that  are  arranged  to  happen 
happened.  The  waiters  brought  armfuls  of  small  cellu- 
loid balls,  weighted,  as  far  as  one  could  judge,  with  loose 
shot  that  made  their  aim  eccentric;  and  slowly,  almost 
bashfully  at  first,  people  began  to  pelt  one  another, 
beginning  with  their  friends  and  acquaintances,  then 
guests  so  far  removed  that  they  might  be  trusted  not  to 
discover  their  aggressors,  and  then  their  neighbours.  It 
seemed,  it  was,  good-humoured:  it  was  youth,  it  was  a 
certain  mad  happiness.  Here  a  young  and  pretty  matron 
from  Milwaukee,  with  her  dyspeptic  husband  regard- 
ing her  with  a  not  quite  disapproving  eye,  was  carrying 
on  a  brisk  fusilade  with  a  little  Frenchman;  there  a  co- 
cotte,  dressed  and  coiffed  in  so  exquisite  a  manner  that 
one  would  have  thought  that  to  move  would  spell  dis- 
aster, was  furiously  pelting  an  American  novelist  whose 
Berserker  rage  made  him  forget  all  prudence.  "He  is 
mad,"  his  neighbours  said.  With  one  foot  on  the 
ground,  and  another  on  his  chair,  he  flung  his  missiles 
with  a  vigour  that  meant  execution  when  they  struck; 
his  coat  half  oflf  his  back,  his  hair  tousled,  his  face  red,  his 
eyes  a-sparkle.  He,  too,  like  his  countrywoman,  had 
forgotten  the  United  States!  He  had  even  forgotten 
Indiana. 

At  first  Alison  was  hugely  amused.  It  was  all  so 
fresh.  She  looked  round  at  the  different  tables,  at  the 
warring  groups,  and  she  could  see  nothing  but  cheerful- 
ness, cheerful  riot,  perhaps,  madness,  but  gaiety. 
Charles's  young  girl  she  saw.  It  would  seem  that  her 
friend  had  arrived.    Was  he  English,  or  American,  or 


so  CAVIARE 

French?  It  was  difficult  to  say.  He  was  well  set  up, 
strong-faced,  alert  —  but  hard.  Not  the  kind  of  man  to 
cross,  Alison  thought.  He  was  watching  the  scene  and 
his  young  companion  with  indulgent  eyes,  taking  no 
part,  but  obviously  not  disapproving.  And  yet  as  the 
fun  grew  more  furious,  less  restrained,  his  regard  was 
less  kind,  and  suddenly  his  face  clouded,  and  his  right 
hand  shot  out  to  seize  his  companion's  elbow.  What  he 
said  Alison,  of  course,  could  not  hear,  but  she  seemed  so 
much  his  property,  so  used  to  obedience,  that  she  suc- 
cumbed at  once,  sank  back  on  the  banquette,  and,  with 
a  rapid  sheathing  of  her  brown  eyes,  turned  to  talk,  even 
as  she  warded  off  the  missiles  that  continued  to  find  their 
way  to  so  pretty  a  target. 

And  now  what  had  been  amusing  became  .  .  •.  Alison 
searched  for  a  word,  and  did  n't  find  one.  She  had  seen 
etchings  by  Felicien  Rops  that  came  now  to  her  mind. 
The  beauty  of  the  scene  was  gone,  and  a  skull  seemed  to 
grimace  under  the  gay  trappings.  The  young  matron's 
headdress  had  gone  awry,  her  face  had  reddened,  one 
shoulder  was  half  out  of  her  bodice;  she  was  drunk,  if 
not  with  wine,  then  with  everj'^  evil  excitement.  This 
way  and  that  she  flung  herself.  Hers  was  complete 
abandonment.  Away  in  the  corner  there  was  an  English 
party.  An  oldish  woman,  too  stupid  to  feel  anything, 
her  daughter,  neither  too  young  nor  too  stupid  to  be 
soiled,  and  two  men  —  each  half  drunk,  each  crowned 
with  a  ridiculous  paper  cap.  The  girl  and  her  two  com- 
panions were  growing  noisier  and  noisier.  The  splendid 
cocotte  whom  Alison  had  seen  —  she  and  one  or  two  of 
her  kind  —  they  alone,  they  and  the  waiters,  seemed  to 


THE    LITTLE    BLUE   TURBAN    APPEARS      51 

preserve  their  peace  of  mind.  The  waiters  ran  to  and 
fro,  carrying  fresh  armfuls  of  balls,  fresh  bottles  of 
champagne;  the  cocottes  did  their  parts  with  a  hard 
merriment.  It  was  horrible  —  and  most  horrible  of  all 
was  the  hard,  brilliant  mouths  and  eyes  of  those  women 
who,  even  while  they  seemed  to  forget  everything  in 
their  excitement,  preserved  that  bitter,  that  calculating 
gaze.  At  least  not  so  had  the  young  girl  been  with  whom 
Charles  had  awakened  Alison's  resentment.  But  she  was 
young  and  soft.   The  rest  comes,  perhaps. 

Gradually,  however,  the  riot  died  out  and  people  left 
for  other  restaurants,  or  perhaps  (although  less  likely) 
for  their  beds.  Others  came,  but  they  were  not  enough 
to  stem  the  tide,  and  the  room  began  to  grow  less 
crowded.  Alison  was  adding  impatience  to  disgust,  and 
Charles  looked  at  Mr.  Gorham  to  see  if  he  would  n't 
give  the  signal  for  their  departure.  But  Mr.  Gorham 
was  having  the  time  of  his  life.  Why  should  he  stir? 
Besides,  he  had  started  on  another  bottle,  and  his  cigar 
was  new,  —  and  after  all,  Charles  was  looking  after  his 
daughter.  A  good  fellow  that  Caerleon. 


CHAPTER  IX 

STILL   IN   THE   ABBAYE   AND   PASSING   THE   TIME 

CHARLES'S  cup  of  bitterness  —  I  say  his  cup  of 
bitterness  because  he  really  was  n't  enjoying  his 
evening;  he  liked  being  with  Miss  Gorham,  but 
he  did  n't  like  being  with  Miss  Gorham  in  the  Place 
Pigalle  —  was  full  when  it  at  last  became  evident  that 
no  ordinary  means  would  drag  Mr.  Gorham  from 
Montmartre,  that  he  really  had  the  courage  of  his  pro- 
gramme, that,  all  unthinking  of  the  stern,  grey  fact  that 
it  was  still  the  depth  of  winter,  he  was  set  upon  seeing 
the  sun  rise  from  Sacre  Coeur. 

If  there  is  one  thing  more  irritating  than  watching 
the  antics  of  a  drunken  man  on  the  stage,  it  is  to  read 
an  attempted  transliteration  of  his  words  on  the  printed 
page,  so  I  will  spare  you  Mr.  Gorham's  replies  to  his 
daughter's  timid  suggestions  that  she  would  n't  be 
sorry  now  if  he  would  pay  the  bill  and  go  home.  Besides, 
he  was  n't  drunk.  If  he  had  been  really  drunk,  Charles 
might  have  thought  of  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty.  He 
was  lucid  enough.  He  was  only  stubborn.  "I  came  up 
here  to  see  the  sun  rise  and  the  sun  rise  I  'm  going  to  see," 
was  what  he  said  in  effect.  His  obstinacy  betrayed 
itself  in  an  absolute  inability  to  understand  that  on  that 
particular  morning,  according  to  Charles's  pocket  diary, 
the  sun  did  n't  rise  till  7.29.  He  had  it  firmly  fixed  in  his 
head,  behind  those  twinkling  eyes,  that  pink  forehead, 


STILL   IN   THE   ABBAYE  53 

that  if  directly  —  there  was  no  hurry,  of  course  —  they 
started  out  and  walked  up  the  hill,  they  'd  arrive  on  the 
terrace  in  front  of  the  new  church  (no,  it  is  not  a  cathe- 
dral !)  just  in  good  time  to  see  the  towers  of  Notre  Dame 
bathed  in  the  first  rays  of  the  morning. 

Charles  did  n't  know  what  to  do.  What  should  he 
have  done?  He  could  hardly  suggest  to  Alison  that  they 
should  leave  her  father  there  and  that  he  should  take  her 
home  to  the  Meurice.  Besides,  her  father  would  have 
had  something  to  say  to  that.  There  he  sat,  sipping  his 
champagne  and  smoking  his  Corona,  and  I  don't  think 
he'd  have  connived  at  or  smiled  upon  any  little  plot 
that  the  others  might  wish  to  engineer.  He  did  n't  want 
to  talk.  But  he  could  talk.  He  just  wanted  to  be  left 
alone  for  a  few  minutes  —  and  then  they  would  walk  up 
to  see  the  sun  rise.  The  fresh  air  would  do  them  all 
good  —  especially  Alison. 

And  Alison  seemed  to  know  her  father  too  well  to  seek 
to  combat  his  plans  any  more.  With  a  glance  she  silenced 
Charles,  who  was  about  to  start  on  some  fresh  campaign 
of  expostulation.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  one  might  as  well 
talk  to  a  Chinese  idol  as  to  this  mass  of  pink  and  satis- 
fied flesh. 

"Let 's  drive  Miss  Gorham  home  and  then  drive  back 
to  Sacre  Coeur  —  it  is  n't  far"  —  Charles  did  get  that 
out. 

The  suggestion  was  not  a  success.  "Nonsense,"  Mr. 
Gorham  replied.  "All  this  restaurant  air  is  bad  for  her. 
She  won't  sleep  after  it.  It'll  do  her  all  the  good  in  the 
world  to  walk  a  little.  Besides,  I  promised  her."  And 
he  subsided  again. 


54  CAVIARE 

Obviously  there  was  nothing  else  for  Charles  to  do. 
There  he  was  and  there  he  must  rest.  It  was  all  very  un- 
comfortable, and  all  very  stupid.  Mr.  Gorham  did  n't 
look  the  kind  of  man  who  would  get  any  more  drunk 
than  he  already  was,  so  perhaps  if  they  sat  there  he  'd 
begin  to  see  reason.  But  sitting  there  and  doing  nothing 
became  increasingly  difficult,  increasingly  dull,  both  for 
Charles  and  for  Miss  Gorham.  Even  the  riot  had  died 
away.  They  could  n't  talk  because  in  their  position 
and  at  this  moment  there  was  n't  anything  to  talk  about. 
Alison  knew  that  he  knew  that  her  father  had  taken  more 
wine  than  was  good  for  him  and  was  now  set  on  folly; 
Charles  knew  that  she  knew  that  he  knew.  He  volun- 
teered a  few  remarks.  Were  n't  that  man  and  woman 
over  there  against  the  wall  exactly  like  a  -Toulouse- 
Lautrec?  Did  n't  she  think  that  Yvette  Guilbert  would 
have  done  better  to  stick  to  the  atmosphere  of  her  first 
songs?  Had  she  seen  the  Italian  Futurists?  Alison  an- 
swered all  his  questions  as  in  duty  bound,  but  she  did 
so  without  conviction,  and  the  conversation  languished. 
Nor  was  there  much  to  look  at.  Still  the  little  Spanish 
woman  danced,  and  ran  to  and  fro,  and  smacked  inoffen- 
sive old  gentlemen  on  their  bald  pates  —  to  their  great 
glee,  and  to  the  great  glee  of  their  female  companions; 
still  sang  the  not  very  attractive  negro  singer;  still  the 
one  or  two  English  dancers  made  friends.  .  .  .  They 
had  to,  poor  dears.  Perhaps  it  is  n't  Albert's  practice  — 
he  looks  generous,  but  in  most  places  of  the  kind  that 
young  girl  of  nineteen  who  talks  Lancashire,  and  who 
dances  as  if  dancing  was  purely  a  question  of  acrobatics, 
does  n't  get  paid  anything :  she  is  expected  to  wheedle 


STILL   IN   THE  ABBAYE  55 

money  out  of  the  men  who  dance  with  her,  or  out  of  the 
people  who  call  her  to  their  tables  and  offer  her  a  drink. 
That 's  really  a  fact.  One  I  knew  got  four  louis  one  even- 
ing out  of  a  rich  and  fat  Australian.  She  showed  them  to 
me  with  glee !  or  rather  she  showed  me  the  little  lump 
they  made  at  the  side  of-  her  instep  where  they  had 
slipped  down  inside  her  stocking.  They  'd  be  safe  there. 
She  'd  tell  the  other  girls  that  he  was  jolly  mean,  that 
he  'd  only  given  her  half  a  louis.  If  she  'd  saved  enough 
money  before  the  summer,  she  intended  to  go  back  to 
Oldham  and  have  a  long  rest.  "The  men  always  ask 
me  the  same  question,"  she  told  me,  "and  I  always 
answer  them  the  same  way  —  but  I  never  do  it  — 
never,  never,  never.  Madame"  —  Madame  is  the  pro- 
prietor's wife  —  "Madame  says,  'Tell  them  you  will, 
and  get  money  out  of  them,  all  you  can  —  but  don't,' 
and  that 's  what  I  do.  Yes,  they  come  back  sometimes 
and  are  pretty  mad,  but  I  tell  'em  it  was  a  mistake,  that 
they  'd  drunk  too  much."  There  are  hundreds  of  quite 
good  young  English  girls  plying  that  trade  in  that  way 
on  the  Continent.   Heaven  looks  after  them,  I  hope. 

But  although  in  telling  you  this  I  have  passed  over 
some  of  the  time  that  Charles  and  Miss  Gorham  found 
so  tedious,  I  have  to  come  back  to  them.  There  they 
were,  and  they  both  of  them  felt  things  were  very  flat, 
stale,  and  unprofitable.  They  had  to  pretend  to  one  an- 
other to  be  interested  in  the  subjects  of  their  desultory 
conversation.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  very  dull.  Alison  at 
least  would  have  liked  to  tuck  her  feet  up,  to  put  her 
head  on  her  father's  knee,  and  to  go  off  to  sleep. 
Charles  did  n't  want  to  sleep,  but  he  had  a  feeling  that 


56  CAVIARE 

it  would  only  be  worth  rousing  himself  if  he  could  brush 
all  these  belated  revellers  into  the  cold  air  of  the  Place. 
Faugh  .  .  .   ! 

At  last,  however,  Mr.  Gorham  emerged  from  his  stu- 
por. He  became  brisk.  Calling  for  the  bill  he  rallied  his 
young  companions  with  a  cheerful  "Come  along  or  we 
shall  be  late,"  and  almost  before  they  could  wriggle  into 
their  coats  had  them  outside  in  the  dry  cold  of  the 
January  morning.  As  she  left  Alison  had  looked  at  the 
young  girl  who  was  Charles's  friend.  Her  eyes,  she  saw, 
followed  him,  followed  him  wistfully.  Alison  shivered. 
She  hoped  never  again  to  find  herself  in  that  galley  — 
and  she  thought  she  hated  Mr.  Caerleon. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  VIEW  FROM  SACEE  CCEUR 

MR.  GORHAM  refused  the  services  of  one  of 
those  discreet  carriages  which,  as  the  morning 
comes,  take  the  place  of  the  famiUar  taxi- 
autos  outside  the  restaurants  of  the  night.  "  We  want  to 
walk,"  he  answered,  all  unheedful,  as  fathers  —  and 
husbands  too  —  are  wont  to  be,  of  Alison's  satin  shoes 
and  high  heels.  And  to  walk  to  Sacre  Cceur  from  the 
Place  Pigalle  is  no  light  undertaking  even  in  the  day- 
time. Get  yourself  thoroughly  out  of  condition  by  a 
week  in  Paris,  eating  too  much,  drinking  too  much, 
staying  up  too  late,  taking  no  exercise,  and  then  try. 
But  don't  try  at  four  o'clock  of  a  winter's  morning  in  a 
fur  coat.  Besides,  it  is  n't  supposed  to  be  safe.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  Place  Pigalle  is  what  is  popularly  sup- 
posed to  be  the  Quartier  des  Apaches.  Other  parts  of 
Paris  claim  that  distinction,  but  those  steep  streets  that 
run  uphill  from  the  outer  boulevard,  and  those  narrow 
byways  that  lead  to  such  cavernous  obscurities  —  they 
most  look  the  part.  Of  all  this  Charles  had  not  been 
unmindful,  but  it  would  n't  have  served  as  an  argument 
with  Mr.  Gorham,  and  anyhow  he  had  always  heard 
that  the  Parisian  rough  never  attacked  two  men.  Also 
he  trusted  to  his  own  prowess. 

Safe  or  dangerous,  the  walk  is  sinister.    In  the  sun- 
shine the  road  is  bizarre,  full  for  an  Anglo-Saxon  of 


>  58  CAVIARE 

curious  hints,  of  suggestions.  In  the  earlier  hours  of  the 
night  it  has  a  certain  populous  gaiety:  cheerful  couples 
emerge  from  the  little  hotels,  one  sees  through  uncur- 
tained windows  lamp-lit  domestic  interiors,  snatches 
of  song  fill  the  air.  But  in  the  hours  before  sunrise 
the  streets  are  empty.  Nor  cat  nor  dog  prowls  the 
byways.  The  houses  are  homes  of  mystery;  their  irreg- 
ular roofs  make  an  odd,  disturbing  pattern  against  the 
sky. 

Alison  was  n't  exactly  frightened,  but  she  was  certainly 
nervous.  Nobody  had  told  her  that  her  father  was  doing 
a  particularly  foolish  thing,  but  all  the  same  she  had  a 
sense  that,  apart  altogether  from  the  folly  of  humouring 
a  stubborn  man  to  the  extent  of  looking  for  the  sun 
three  hours  before  it  was  due,  the  whole  proceeding 
lacked  sense,  propriety,  seemliness.  Could  n't  Mr,  Caer- 
leon  have  stopped  it?  she  asked  herself,  forgetting  that 
she  'd  discouraged  his  attempts.  And  he  could  n't  have 
stopped  it  anyway.  He  could  have  refused  to  remain 
with  them,  but  that  was  all  he  could  have  done.  In  that 
case  her  father  would  have  started  out  with  her  alone, 
and  her  position  would  have  been  worse  than  ever. 
"Papa"  was  a  very  good  guardian  on  Chestnut  Street 
or  Fifth  Avenue,  or  even  here  in  Paris  down  on  the 
Grands  Boulevards  where  everyone  spoke  English  and 
where  Messrs.  Thomas  Cook  and  Son  were  always  just 
round  the  corner.  But  up  here,  on  Montmartre,  —  well, 
it  was  another  thing.  She  looked  sideways  at  Mr.  Caer- 
leon  and  almost  forgot  her  resentment  in  her  gratitude 
for  his  presence.  Anyhow,  he  was  effective. 

Alison  thought  these  things,  and  Charles  thought  of 


THE   VIEW   FROM   SACRE   CCEUR  59 

Alison,  —  and  of  Mr.  Gorham's  damn-fool  obstinacy, 
too,  a  little,  —  and  Mr.  Gorham  showed  no  signs  of 
thinking  of  anything;  and  they  all  three,  keeping  in  the 
middle  of  the  street  in  order  to  avoid  dustbins,  plodded 
upwards.  By  the  Rat  which  is  Not  Dead  —  although 
it  seems  to  sleep  —  they  passed,  and  up  the  Rue  Hou- 
don  into  the  Rue  des  Abbesses.  As  the  glare  of  the  res- 
taurant left  their  eyes  the  night  seemed  to  grow  less  dark. 
"It's  getting  light  already,"  Mr.  Gorham  announced. 
"Hurry  up;  we  shall  be  late."  But  although  they  could 
see  better,  Alison  did  n't  get  any  happier.  The  more  she 
could  see  the  less  easy  she  became.  Everything  was  very 
sinister.  One  or  two  people  they  passed  looked  as  if  they 
were  sewer  rats,  and  once  real  rats,  seeming  to  jump  up 
from  under  their  feet,  scuttled  across  the  street.  There 
was  no  noise,  save  in  the  distance  a  subdued  roar  which 
might  be  the  movement  of  Paris,  and,  somewhere  away 
to  the  left  where  the  ascent  of  the  hill  was  less  steep,  the 
noise  of  a  motor.  "I  wish  it  would  take  us,"  Alison 
said;  and  even  as  she  spoke,  turning  the  corner  into  the 
Rue  Radignan,  her  heart  was  frightened  into  her  mouth 
by  coming  suddenly  on  two  men  who  seemed  to  be 
waiting. 

"It's  nothing,"  said  Charles.  "Oh,  yes,  no  doubt 
they're  Apaches  all  right,  but  they're  all  cowards,  and 
they  would  n't  interfere  with  a  party  like  ours."  All  the 
same  he  did  n't  easily  dismiss  their  scowling  faces  from 
his  mind,  nor  their  attitude  of  expectancy.  He  was  glad 
when  they  had  put  the  long  flight  of  steps  which  ends 
in  that  baby  Place,  where  in  the  summer  one  drinks 
bocks  outside  Le  Coucou,  between  themselves  and  the 


6o  CAVIARE 

possibility  of  trouble.  At  least,  they  were  not  being 
followed.  .  ,  .  And  yet,  could  he  be  mistaken?  Was 
someone  following  them?  He  turned  round  at  the  last 
step  as  if  to  welcome  the  others,  and  looked  down  and 
away  beyond  the  steps  into  the  silent  street  beneath. 
The  two  ruffians  had  disappeared.  He  could  see  no  one 
—  nothing  that  should  disquiet  him.  And  yet,  he  was 
disquieted.  It  was  a  feeling  in  the  pit  of  his  stomach. 
Mere  nervousness,  he  told  himself.  He  kept  wishing  to 
look  round,  and  would  have  done  so  if  it  had  not  been 
for  a  fear  of  imparting  his  nervousness  to  Alison.  After 
all,  he  had  good  ears  —  and  he  was  sure  they  were  not 
being  followed.  But  all  the  same.  .  .  .  They  had  not 
even  a  stick  between  them.  Oh,  yes;  Mr.  Gorham  had  — 
a  rather  serviceable-looking  ebony  cane  with  a  heavy 
gold  knob.  Charles  remembered,  though,  that  Apaches 
did  n't  generally  give  you  time  to  get  to  work  with  a 
walking-stick.  Such  thoughts  were  absurd.  He  might 
well  be  ashamed  of  himself. 

Besides,  here  they  were  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  all 
they  had  to  do  was  to  go  round  the  shoulder  of  the  old 
church,  through  that  little  Balzacian  lane  where  small 
shopkeepers  sell  objects  of  piety  to  perspiring  pilgrims, 
and  they  would  be  under  Sacre  Coeur  itself.  He  had 
surely  been  nervous  without  cause.  If,  though,  he  had 
been  with  two  men  he  would  have  made  more  sure.  It 
was  rotten,  not  being  able  to  turn  round. 

And  then  —  well,  nothing  happened.  They  pursued 
their  route  through  the  silent  streets  and  reached  the 
new  church  shining  white  in  the  starlight,  and  they  also 
reached  the  wooden  barricade  which  is  presumably  put 


THE   VIEW  FROM   SACRE   CCEUR  6i 

up  for  the  very  purpose  of  dissuading  old  fools  like  Mr. 
Gorham  from  endangering  their  precious  lives  and  still 
more  precious  purses  by  coming  up  to  look  over  Paris 
by  night  or  to  see  the  sun  rise  over  the  Seine.  Charles 
could  have  kicked  himself.  Here  they  were:  three  don- 
keys in  the  starlight.  He  even  included  Alison  in  his 
denunciation.  A  pretty  group  they  made.  Mr.  Gorham 
and  he  in  fur  coats  and  opera  hats;  Alison  in  a  light  opera 
cloak,  her  dress  no  doubt  spoiled,  and  with  her  shoes 
certainly  torn  and  muddied.  He  could  have  kicked  him- 
self, because  he  could  remember  now  having  read,  not 
so  many  months  ago,  that  very  notice  at  which  they 
were  now  staring,  and  which  told  so  clearly  that  the 
gates  were  closed  at  sunset.  Why,  they  would  have  a 
better  view  of  Paris  from  the  Place  Pigalle  or  the  banks 
of  the  Seine. 

Charles  looked  at  Mr.  Gorham.  That  aged  reprobate 
was  not  so  easily,  so  quickly  discouraged. 

"Let's  go  to  the  Moulin  de  la  Galette,"  he  said. 
"There  's  almost  as  good  a  view  from  the  garden  there, 
just  by  the  windmill,  as  there  is  from  in  front  of  the 
church  here." 

That  Charles  could  n't  stand.  He  felt  he'd  had  enough 
of  being  dragged  about  at  Mr.  Gorham's  heels,  and,  any- 
how, the  Moulin  de  la  Galette  was  just  about  the  last 
place  in  the  world  for  wealthy-looking  foreigners  at 
five  in  the  morning.  "It's  no  use  going  there,  Mr.  Gor- 
ham ;  for  two  reasons :  the  first  is  that  it 's  almost  certain 
to  be  closed"  ("Let's  go  and  see,"  Mr.  Gorham  inter- 
polated) —  "and  the  second  is  that,  even  if  the  place  is 
open  still,  not  all  the  money  in  all  of  our  pockets  would 


62  CAVIARE 

get  them  to  open  their  garden  at  night  at  this  time  of  the 
year.  They  '11  never  do  it.   I  've  tried  before." 

At  this  Mr.  Gorham  subsided,  looked  for  the  fiftieth 
time  at  the  sky  and  again  at  the  notice  which  explained 
their  non-admittance.  "Well,  Alison,  it 's  getting  lighter 
and  lighter.  We'll  just  wait.  They  say  there  when  they 
close  this  darned  place,  but  they  don't  say  anything 
about  keeping  it  closed.  Why,  of  course,  the  French 
always  get  up  early.  The  concierge"  —  he  was  getting 
confused  —  "  is  bound  to  be  about  directly.  Why,  let 's 
knock;  let 's  kick  at  this  gate.  .  .  ." 

But  these  expostulations  were  only  the  last  flicker  of 
Mr.  Gorham's  obstinacy.  True,  there  they  all  three 
stood,  under  the  stars,  not  cold,  because  of  their  furs, 
but  unutterably  weary  and  foot  sore  —  there  they  all 
stood  for  what  seemed  like  another  hour.  Charles  would 
have  given  anything  to  have  been  allowed  to  put  his 
arm  around  Alison,  to  draw  her  cloak  tighter  round  her 
throat,  to  give  her  something  to  lean  against.  Precious 
little  good  her  great,  fat,  pink  father  was !  It  seemed  an 
hour  —  but  it  was  only  a  few  minutes.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  long  walk  and  the  cold  open  air  here  on  the  hilltop 
that  between  them  were  sweeping  the  obstinacy  out  of 
Mr.  Gorham's  brain.  "What's  the  time?"  he  ejacu- 
lated, and  looked  at  his  own  watch.  "Why,  it's  only 
just  after  five."  And  then  in  a  minute:  "  Look  here,  I  'm 
not  sure  that  you  children  are  n't  right.  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  again?  I  was  forgetting  it 's  winter.  The  last 
time  I  was  at  the  Abbaye  we  came  up  at  four  to  see  the 
sun  rise  —  but  then,  of  course,  that  was  in  April." 
Charles  forbore  to  rub  it  in.   Neither  then  nor  at  any 


THE   VIEW   FROM   SACRE   CCEUR  63 

future  time  did  he  remind  either  Alison  or  her  father 
that  he  'd  tried  to  convince  him,  with  the  aid  of  a  pocket 
diary  which  bore  printed  witness  to  the  fact,  that  even 
if  there  had  been  no  barricade  they  'd  have  had  to  sit  for 
two  hours  and  fifty-three  minutes  on  the  church  terrace 
before  the  sun  would  show  itself  over  the  heights  of 
Montparnasse. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  RUE  LEPIC,  A  TAXI-AUTO,  AND  REAL  DRAMA 

COMING  down  from  Sacre  Coeur  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  going  up.  Not  that  I  would  advise 
either  at  five  o'clock  on  a  winter  morning.  One 
feels  that  one  is  leaving  a  rather  strange,  a  very  old, 
unusual  world;  that  one  is  returning  to  one's  own  cen- 
tury, one's  own  people.  One  may  have  enjoyed  oneself, 
but  all  the  same  —  well,  one  is  more  secure,  more  nor- 
mal, when  one  sees  the  lights  of  the  Place  Trinite. 

And  so  it  was  with  Charles  and  his  friends.  Oh,  how 
they  were  tired!  And  yet  they  walked  along  briskly, 
even  Alison  forgetting  her  bruised  feet.  The  Meurice 
had  a  hot  bath  waiting  for  her,  and  a  cool  bed,  and  there 
would  be  no  need  to  rise  on  the  morrow.  Perhaps  soon, 
too,  —  certainly  when  they  reached  the  outer  boule- 
vards, —  they  'd  come  across  a  taxi-auto.  In  the  mean 
time  the  pavements  were  peculiarly  atrocious,  and  as 
one  walked  down  the  hill  one  seemed  to  drive  all  one's 
feet  into  the  toes  of  one's  shoes.  And  to  cross  the  street, 
to  tread  on  cobbles  —  ah!  that  was  a  separate  agony. 

Soon  happily  the  worst,  the  steepest,  of  the  hill  was  at 
an  end.  They  turned  into  the  Rue  Lepic.  All  the  time 
Charles  had  had  growing  on  him  that  sense  of  disquiet 
that  he  had  felt  an  hour  ago,  as  they  had  mounted  the 
hill,  and  which  he  had  lost  as  they  reached  Sacre  Coeur 
itself.  He  told  himself  it  was  fancy,  and  yet  he  could  n't 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    65 

drive  away  the  little  fear  he  had.  No,  fear  is  not  the 
word.  Something  in  him  seemed  to  quiver  with  a  vague 
sense  of  following,  impending  calamity.  Those  dark 
walls,  those  depths  to  right  and  left,  that  pattern  of 
mediaeval  roofs  —  they  seemed  mediaeval  at  this  hour  — 
against  the  sky:  all  made  for  nervousness.  They  had 
given  up  walking  in  the  middle  of  the  street  to  save 
Alison's  feet  from  the  cobbles,  and  Charles  seemed  in 
his  mind's  eye  to  see,  to  be  unable  to  shut  out,  their 
three  figures,  —  bizarre,  curious,  little  —  making  their 
way  through  canons  of  mystery.  The  tap-tap  of  their 
shoes  on  the  ground  was  the  only  sound  he  could  hear. 
It  had  a  note  of  ghastliness.  He  shook  himself.  He  was 
allowing  his  fatigue  to  overcome  him.  His  nerves  did  n't 
play  him  such  tricks  ordinarily.  And  here,  as  I  say, 
they  were  in  the  Rue  Lepic.  Nothing  was  likely  to 
happen  to  them  now. 

And  there,  surely  and  happily,  was  the  light  of  a  car 
coming  slowly  toward  them.  Possibly  it  was  empty  and 
plying  for  hire.  Empty  it  certainly  was,  and  at  the 
raising  of  Charles's  hand  it  stopped  and  turned  as  if  to 
pick  them  up.  But  the  chauffeur  had  underestimated 
the  space  required:  his  front  wheels  came  against  the 
edge  of  the  pavement  and  he  had  to  back  again.  And 
then  the  engine  stopped.  "  Hell,"  Charles  said  to  himself 
—  not  that  it  need  mean  more  than  a  second's  delay. 
His  nerves  again. 

The  chauffeur,  off  the  box  by  now,  was  tinkering  in- 
side the  bonnet  (let  me  be  quite  frank  and  say  that  I 
know  just  about  as  much  about  a  motor's  mechanism  as 
Mr.  Hall  Caine  knows  about  the  Derby:  there  is  this 


66  CAVIARE 

difference,  though,  —  these  things  happened).  What- 
ever was  the  matter  was  evidently  not  merely  a  question 
of  turning  a  handle.  And  now  Charles  noticed  that  the 
chauffeur  had  a  companion  —  another  man  sat  on  the 
box  next  his  seat.  Of  course,  the  strike  of  taxi-autos  was 
not  yet  at  an  end.  The  blacklegs  seldom  went  out 
unaccompanied. 

"It  '11  be  all  right  in  a  moment,"  the  chauffeur  mut- 
tered. "It's  nothing:  the  engine's  cooled.  .  .  .  Will 
monsieur"  —  and  he  addressed  Mr.  Gorham  —  "will 
monsieur  not  get  in  and  sit  down?"  As  he  said  this  he 
stepped  in  front  of  Alison  and  Charles,  perhaps  to  make 
room  for  Mr.  Gorham  to  get  to  the  door,  perhaps  to  pre- 
vent their  all  getting  in.  Charles  did  n't  pretend  to  be 
very  clear-headed  just  then.  It  did  n't  seem-  unnatural 
that  Mr.  Gorham  should  be  given  the  precedence:  he 
was  old  and  fat.  If  they  all  got  in,  it  might  tire  the 
machine.  I  don't  say  he  thought  this,  but  he  was  n't 
in  a  mood  to  argue  about  trifles,  and  in  any  case  he'd 
rather  Mr.  Gorham  got  in  and  left  him  on  the  pavement 
with  Alison.  So  Mr.  Gorham  did  get  in,  and  the  chauffeur 
closed  the  door  and  returned  to  his  machinery. 

What  happened  next  Charles  owed  to  a  lucky  accident. 
The  man  on  the  box  shifted  his  position  ever  so  little, 
and  as  a  result  the  light  from  a  near-by  lamp  fell  full  on 
his  face.  An  extraordinary  face  for  a  chauffeur's  com- 
panion, Charles  could  n't  help  thinking.  Not  a  Latin 
face.  But  more  than  this  Charles  saw:  the  man's  lips 
wreathed  themselves  at  this  moment  into  a  curious, 
mocking,  triumphant  smile.  All  his  fears  came  back. 
He  remembered  in  a  flash  having  read  only  yesterday 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    67 

of  taxi-cab  robberies  in  New  York.  He  felt  there  was 
some  game  on,  and  his  fatigue  fell  away  from  him,  his 
muscles  grew  taut.  .  .  . 

Not  a  moment  too  soon.  At  the  second  almost  that 
the  smile  of  the  other  man  had  put  him  on  his  guard  the 
engines  began  to  race.  Slapping  the  bonnet  down,  the 
chauffeur  turned  quickly  and  made  to  leap  into  his 
seat.  In  another  moment  the  car  would  have  been 
started,  and  Charles  and  Alison  would  have  been  left  on 
the  pavement,  and  Mr.  Gorham  would  have  been  half- 
way down  the  Rue  Lepic.  Charles's  arm  shot  out.  Seiz- 
ing the  Frenchman  by  the  shoulder  he  spun  him  round, 
and  then  before  he  could  recover  himself  had  flung  him 
against  the  lamp-post. 

"Open  the  door,  quick,"  he  cried  to  Alison,  "Jump 
out,  Mr.  Gorham:  they're  trying  to  kidnap  you!"  he 
added  in  a  shout;  and  then,  thinking  it  best  to  act  first 
and  explain  afterwards  (remember,  all  this  took  the 
smallest  fraction  of  a  minute  to  complete),  he  jumped 
himself  on  the  footboard  and  pushed  his  fist  with  all  his 
force  into  the  face  of  the  second  man.  Ah,  he  was  an 
easy  mark.  Back  he  fell  off  his  seat  into  the  street  at  the 
other  side  of  the  car.  Forgetting  the  chauffeur,  Charles 
ran  round:  the  man  might  have  fallen  only;  he  might 
mean  mischief. 

He  certainly  had  meant  mischief.  He  lay  on  his  back. 
Whether  he  was  stunned  with  the  blow,  or  whether  in 
falling  he  had  struck  his  head,  Charles  did  n't  know;  but 
what  he  did  know  was,  that  in  one  hand  was  a  revolver 
—  one  of  those  peculiarly  vicious-looking  little  American 
revolvers  that  promise  to  go  off  for  the  mere  malice  of 


68  CAVIARE 

the  thing.  He  must  have  had  his  fingers  on  it  all  the 
time.  And  as  he  lay  there,  his  face  looked  as  if  he  would 
have  used  it  had  Charles  been  just  one  second  slower. 
Charles  bent  over  him  .  .  . 

"Mr.  Caerleon  /" 

It  was  Alison's  voice  thatrang  out,  and  in  a  flash 
Charles  realised  that  he  'd  forgotten  all  about  the 
chauffeur.  He  had  n't  been  stunned.  He  had  only  been 
flung  away  from  the  machine.  Charles  leapt  to  his  feet, 
and,  even  as  he  did  so,  the  car  bounded  forward,  and 
almost  before  he  realised  what  was  happening,  it  was 
gone,  careering  down  the  street  at  its  full  speed.  But, 
thank  Heaven!  both  Alison  and  Mr.  Gorham  were  safe: 
nothing  was  the  matter  with  them. 

A  glance  at  the  man  who  had  been  on  the  box  showed 
that  he  was  still  unconscious  (Charles  had  satisfied  him- 
self that  nothing  worse  had  happened  to  him  than  to  be 
stunned),  and  Charles  turned  to  his  companions. 

"  It 's  all  right,"  Mr.  Gorham  assured  him.  "  I  jumped 
out  quick  enough  when  Alison  here  opened  the  door  and 
I  heard  your  shout.  But  I  've  got  to  thank  you  again, 
Caerleon.  I  don't  know  what  we  should  do  without  you. 
You  've  helped  us  twice.  Heaven  knows  what  those 
infernal  scoundrels  would  have  done  with  me  if  they  'd 
got  off.  I  suppose  they  thought  that,  as  I  was  the  oldest, 
and  fattest,  I  should  be  the  one  with  the  bank-roll.  But 
let 's  look  at  the  man  down  there;  I  hope  he  is  n't  really 
hurt." 

Charles  reassured  him,  but  Mr.  Gorham  wanted  to 
have  a  look  for  himself,  and  while  Charles  talked  to  Ali- 
son, who  was  a  little  shaken  now  that  the  incident  and 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    69 

the  danger  were  at  an  end,  he  went  to  the  fallen  figure 
that  lay  like  a  corpse  half  across  the  street. 

It  was  a  very  natural  and  normal  Mr.  Gorham  whom 
Charles  had  seen  when,  the  car  vanishing,  he  had  turned 
to  learn  about  and  to  congratulate  him  on  his  escape  — 
a  Mr.  Gorham  entirely  restored  to  sense  and  sanity. 
But  it  seemed  to  Charles  that,  in  the  moment  of  exam- 
ining the  man  who  lay  in  the  street,  he  altered :  the  pink- 
ness  of  his  face  became  grey,  the  flesh  seemed  to  fall 
away.  Perhaps,  as  with  Miss  Gorham,  the  incident  was 
having  its  effect  now  —  now  when  the  excitement  was 
at  an  end.  Even  elderly  American  gentlemen  are  not 
in  the  habit  of  being  kidnapped.  It  is  the  sort  of  thing 
to  give  one  a  nasty  jar.  Anyhow,  when  Mr.  Gorham 
straightened  himself  up  he  seemed  shaken,  older,  shocked 
in  some  way.  At  the  moment  Charles  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  the  alteration  or  to  the  way  in  which  Mr.  Gor- 
ham spoke,  more  thickly,  more  excitedly  than  was  his 
wont. 

"Look  here!  We  can't  leave  this  man  here.  He  's  not 
really  hurt,  as  you  say,  but  we  can't  just  prop  him  up 
against  a  wall  and  go  away.  We  'd  better  give  him  in 
charge.  I  '11  tell  you :  you  and  x\lison  walk  down  the  hill : 
you'll  find  plenty  of  gendarmes  where  they  're  not 
wanted  in  the  Place  Blanche.  I  '11  stop  here  and  look 
after  him.  Yes,  I  '11  be  safe  enough.  He  won't  move. 
And  the  other  man  's  got  his  car  down  in  the  Place  de  la 
Concorde  by  now.  Come  back  with  a  gendarme  as  quick 
as  you  can." 

So  as  Mr.  Gorham  seemed  to  have  taken  things  in 
hand,  to  have  assumed  control,  and  as  he  was  evidently 


70  CAVIARE 

used  to  giving  orders,  Charles  did  as  he  was  told,  and 
took  Miss  Gorham  down  the  hill.  But  even  in  the  Place 
Blanche  it  took  a  little  while  to  find  any  assistance.  The 
men  who  were  about  were  n't  exactly  the  kind  to  call 
upon  for  help.  They  looked  at  the  couple  curiously,  and 
Alison  shrank  closer  to  Charles,  who  had  had  to  support 
her  as  it  was.  She  had  been  more  upset  than  she  had 
thought.   Not  unnaturally. 

Indeed,  before  they  could  find  a  gendarme  they  had 
to  walk  all  the  way  to  the  Place  Pigalle,  where  one 
sleepy-looking  uniform  was  presiding  over  the  arrival 
and  departure  of  the  last  belated  revellers,  and  where 
still  a  few  autos  waited  outside  the  Abbaye,  the  Pigalle, 
and  the  Royal.  And  even  when  they  had  found  him, 
it  was  some  minutes  before  he  could  be  made  to  under- 
stand what  they  wanted,  that  there  was  really  some- 
thing vital  for  him  to  do.  He  did  n't  look  at  Alison  at 
all,  and  he  hardly  looked  at  Charles.  I  suppose  he 
summed  up  all  young  people  who  walked  about  Mont- 
martre  in  evening  clothes  at  half -past  five  in  the  morning 
as  of  exactly  the  same  kind.  They  were  n't  likely  to  be 
serious.  No,  indeed! 

After  a  while,  however,  Charles  did  get  him  to  see 
sense  and  to  come  with  them;  but  in  the  mean  time  their 
conversation  —  obviously  not  a  mere  asking  of  the 
time  of  day  —  had  attracted  attention,  and  when  they 
started  again  up  the  Rue  Houdon  they  were  followed  by 
as  unsavoury  a  collection  of  riff-raff  as  it  is  possible  to 
imagine.  Charles  begged  him  to  hurry.  He  would  n't. 
The  majesty,  the  deliberation  of  the  law  was  in  this  its 
representative. 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    71 

While  they  had  been  looking  for  help,  Alison  had  been 
reasonably  self-possessed  and  calm,  very  tired  but  as- 
sured, but  now  they  had  found  it  she  became  full  of 
fears  and  nervous.  Would  they  be  in  time?  They  had 
been  away  so  long,  "Not  nearly  as  long  as  you  think," 
Charles  answered.  "And,  besides,  what  can  have  hap- 
pened? Nothing.  The  man,  even  if  he  had  come  round, 
would  n't  be  in  a  position  to  do  any  harm.  I  'd  trust  your 
father  to  look  after  him  —  besides,  your  father  's  got  the 
revolver." 

"Yes,  but  the  motor-car  may  have  come  back;  there 
may  have  been  others.  How  about  those  men  whom  we 
met  as  we  were  going  up?" 

"  Dear  Miss  Gorham,  there  is  n't  really  any  cause  for 
anxiety.  And  here  we  are,  anyway"  —  and  they  turned 
into  the  Rue  Lepic. 

Charles  was  right:  there  was  n't  any  cause  for  anxiety. 
There  where  they  had  left  him  stood  Mr.  Gorham;  but 
he  was  alone.  Charles  was  astonished.  He  could  have 
sworn  that  the  man  whom  he  had  knocked  down  would 
n't  have  been  in  a  fit  case  to  walk  away  in  so  short  a 
time,  to  say  nothing  of  being  able  to  get  away  from  any- 
one who  had  such  good  reason  as  Mr.  Gorham  had  for 
wishing  to  keep  him. 

"What  happened?"  he  asked. 

Mr.  Gorham  seemed  rather  ashamed  of  himself.  He 
answered  rather  shamefacedly,  Charles  thought.  "No- 
thing happened,  and  that  's  just  the  reason  why  he  's 
got  away.  You  see,  when  you  did  n't  conic  back,  I  began 
to  think  that  possibly  something  had  happened  to  you, 
so  I  pulled  the  poor  devil  on  to  the  sidewalk  —  I  could 


72  CAVIARE 

n't  leave  him  in  the  road  to  be  run  over  —  and  walked 
to  the  corner  there  to  see  whether  you  were  n't  coming, 
and  I  stood  there  a  minute  or  two,  and  when  I  turned 
round  the  fellow  was  n't  there.  That's  all  I  know." 

Charles  began  to  press  for  more  information,  but  the 
gendarme  was  getting  impatient.  This  conversation 
had  been  carried  on  in  English,  and  what  he  wanted  to 
know  was  what  had  happened  to  the  body  he  was  to  find 
in  the  road  up  here  and  to  cover  himself  with  glory  by 
arresting  and  taking  off  to  the  poste.  Not  every  arrest 
makes  itself  easily  in  this  part  of  the  world.  "What 's 
all  this?  "  he  asked.  "  I  thought  you  said  I  'd  find  a  thief 
here.   Where 's  your  thief ?  Is  this  all  a  game?" 

Mr.  Gorham's  scanty  French  was  not  equal  to  the 
task  of  discussing  the  matter;  he  hardly  understood 
what  was  being  asked,  and  he  was  so  obviously  ill  at 
ease,  and  they  were  all  finding  the  proximity  of  the 
dozen  or  so  hangers-on  from  the  Place  Pigalle  at  once 
so  uncomfortable  and  so  menacing,  that  Charles  took 
charge  and  cut  the  matter  short. 

"It  is  simple,"  he  assured  the  guardian  of  the  law. 
"While  I  and  this  young  lady  were  looking  for  your 
brave  assistance,  the  man  who  'd  attacked  us  came  to  his 
senses  and  stole  away  while  this  gentleman  was  there  at 
the  corner  looking  for  our  arrival.  But  all  the  same,  I  'm 
very  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you.  Look"  —  and  he 
slipped  into  the  gendarme's  hands  a  couple  of  louis. 
"And  now"  —  for  he  saw  at  once  there  was  to  be  no 
more  trouble  —  "can't  you  get  us  free  of  this  rabble? 
Do  you  think  we  could  get  a  taxi-auto?" 
^    The  gendarme  responded  by  sending  one  of  the  crowd- 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    73 

ing  ruffians  running  down  the  hill  to  the  boulevard,  and 
the  party  of  four  followed  him,  followed  in  their  turn 
by  the  rabble,  who  were  not  so  easily  to  be  shaken  off. 
"  I  wonder  they  don't  try  to  do  us  in,"  said  Mr.  Gorham. 
"They  look  equal  to  it." 

Soon  came  a  taxi-auto,  a  perfectly  normal  and  ordin- 
ary cab  this  one,  Charles  assured  himself;  and  putting 
Mr.  Gorham  in  first  (he  was  afraid  that  if  he  put  Alison 
in  first  the  car  might  make  off  with  her  out  of  pure  devil- 
ry), he  handed  in  the  daughter  and,  flinging  five  francs 
to  the  crowd,  he  himself  followed,  telling  the  chauffeur 
to  drive  to  the  Meurice,  and  wondering  the  while  what 
could  have  happened  to  enable  their  assailant  to  get  so 
clean  away.  It  was  n't  the  first  time  he  'd  seen  a  man 
knocked  out,  and  he  knew  quite  well  that  whoever  he 
was  he  had  n't  got  away  without  assistance.  Well,  any- 
how, it  was  jolly  lucky  that  the  scoundrel's  friends  had 
satisfied  themselves  with  helping  him;  with  a  little  more 
enterprise  they  might  have  cleared  up  Mr.  Gorham 
while  they  were  about  it. 

Mr.  Gorham  himself  did  n't  seem  comfortable.  Cer- 
tainly he  was  n't  communicative.  He  turned  to  Alison 
with  ponderous  f acetiousness :  "Well,  we  haven't  seen 
the  sun  rise  after  all,  my  dear.  We  '11  have  to  put  it  off 
till  the  spring.  The  next  time,  though,  we  '11  bring  half  a 
dozen  policemen  with  us." 

"I  think,  Papa,  it  'd  be  more  to  the  point  to  bring 
Mr.  Caerlcon  .  .  ."  And  then  Alison  broke  down. 
Sitting  next  to  her  father  she  hid  her  face  in  his  coat,  and 
sob})cd  and  .sobbed.  And  no  wonder,  thought  Charles, 
who  had  the  sense  to  know  that  the  crying  portended  no 


74  CAVIARE 

terrible  thing.  To  dine,  and  to  go  to  the  Theatre  Mo- 
derne,  and  to  be  kept  for  hours  in  that  infernal  Abbaye, 
to  be  dragged  up  the  hill,  and  then  on  top  of  it  all  to 
have  their  last  adventure  —  well,  it  would  have  been 
strange  if  Alison  had  n't  broken  down.  But,  neverthe- 
less, although  his  brain  told  him  there  was  nothing  in 
the  girl's  sobbing  to  worry  about,  yet  worry  he  did:  it 
made  him  acutely  miserable;  .  .  .  and  for  the  first  time 
he  realised  that  he  had  more  than  a  liking  for  Alison, 
that  he  loved  her,  that,  if  by  hook  or  crook  he  could 
have  his  way,  his  bachelor  life  was  at  an  end. 

But  here  they  almost  were.  Swinging  round  the  cor- 
ner into  the  Rue  d'Alger,  they  would  be  at  the  Meurice 
in  a  few  seconds.  "Alison,  dear,  we  're  at  the  hotel," 
Mr.  Gorham  proclaimed  —  and  at  once  the  girl  was 
herself  again.  As  she  passed  into  the  light  of  the  door- 
way, Charles  saw  that  her  eyes  were  red,  and,  oh,  so 
tired,  but  she  looked  at  him  and  smiled  —  more  than 
smiled,  he  dared  to  think.  And  so  he  left  them.  "  Come 
in  to-morrow  —  to-day,  I  mean  —  at  tea-time,"  Mr. 
Gorham  said;  "we  've  got  to  thank  you  yet." 

Charles  walked  back  to  the  Chatham.  His  head 
wanted  cooling,  though  his  feet  were  sore.  The  doors  he 
passed  were  being  opened,  people  were  already  begin- 
ning to  appear,  and  —  yes,  there  over  the  roofs  was  the 
first  sign  of  that  dawn  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  searched 
in  vain. 

The  sleepy  porter  at  the  hotel  let  him  in  —  not  for  the 
first  time  had  he  known  Mr.  Caerleon  come  in  so  late; 
and  saying  that  he  wanted  his  coffee  at  ten,  Charles 
went  to  bed  —  to  dream,  and  to  toss  from  side  to  side 


THE  RUE  LEPIC  AND  REAL  DRAMA    75 

with  a  nightmare  in  which  he  seemed  to  be  careering  in 
a  cinematograph  motor-car  up  and  dovrn  the  heights  of 
Montmartre,  over  roofs,  windmills,  and  churches,  driven 
by  a  chauffeur  with  a  mocking  smile,  who  guided  the  car 
with  one  hand  while  with  the  other  he  menaced  him  with 
a  revolver.  And  by  his  side  in  the  car  sat  Alison,  and 
opposite  them  were  Mr,  Gorham  and  a  young  girl  in  a 
little  dark  blue  turban  from  which  at  the  most  provoca- 
tive angle  flowered  a  white  aigrette. 


CHAPTER  XII 

MR.    GORHAM   EXPLAINS 

CONSIDERING  that  he  was  not  in  bed  till  seven 
o'clock,  Charles  responded  very  readily  to  the 
waiter's  call  at  ten  (why  is  it  that  one  needs  so 
little  sleep  in  Paris?),  and  having  drunk  his  coffee  and 
eaten  his  roll,  —  the  croissant  he  rejected  in  fear  of  his 
figure,  —  he  bathed,  dressed  with  more  than  usual  care, 
and  went  out  to  find  sunshine  in  the  streets  and  a  laugh- 
ing gaiety  that,  even  had  there  been  no  Alison,  would 
have  made  him  glad  that  he  was  alive. 

Charles  was  one  of  those  happy  people  who,  while 
they  have  in  themselves  some  fund  of  cheerfulness  on 
which  at  moments  when  other  people  would  be  depressed 
they  can  draw  at  will,  yet  answer  at  once  to  any  call  of 
good  fortune.  In  other  words,  his  was  a  nature  refrac- 
tory to  depression,  but  immediately  respondent  to  a  ray 
of  sunshine,  a  good  claret,  the  smile  of  a  pretty  woman, 
a  beautiful  passage  in  a  painting,  a  well-cut  skirt.  Other 
things  had  the  same  effect,  of  course. 

This  morning,  as  he  could  n't  very  well,  having  been 
told  to  come  at  tea-time,  go  to  inquire  after  Miss  Gor- 
ham,  —  who  'd  be  asleep  anyhow,  he  hoped,  —  Charles 
carried  out  his  usual  morning  practice.  First  he  was 
shaved  under  the  Regina  Hotel,  because  it  was  one  of 
the  few  places  in  Paris  in  which  they  would  at  least  try 
to  give  one  an  American  hot  towel;  then  to  the  florist 


MR.   GORHAM   EXPLAINS  77 

opposite  the  Grand,  where  he  grumbled  at  having  to  pay 
two  francs  for  a  carnation;  then,  not  out  of  viciousness, 
but  from  pure  Hghtness  of  heart,  to  the  bar  of  his  hotel 
for  a  Rose  cocktail.  Next  he  felt  it  necessary,  and  per- 
haps it  would  be  amusing,  to  go  to  Bernheim's  to  see  those 
Italian  Futurists  whom  he  had  been  asking  Alison  about 
the  night  before.  Having  been,  he  knew  it  had  been  un- 
necessary, but  it  had  certainly  been  amusing.  Finally, 
as  there  was  still  a  little  while  before  he  would  care  for 
lunch,  in  a  cab  to  the  Louvre  to  see  the  Frieze  of  the 
Archers,  the  hare,  the  gun,  and  the  lobster  of  Delacroix 
in  the  Moreau  Collection, —  "A  good  bag  that!"  he 
thought,  —  the  sad  space  where  the  Gioconda  was,  and 
the  giant  Courbet.  The  choice  was  characteristic  of 
Charles's  tastes,  and  it  was  also  characteristic  of  him  that 
he  had  to  do  an  intolerable  deal  of  walking  to  get  from 
one  of  these  objects  to  another.  And  getting  to  them ,  he 
did  n't  bother  about  what  was  on  the  right  or  on  the  left. 
Such  was  his  way. 

Then  lunch;  but  although  it  would  amuse  me  to  tell 
you  where  he  had  it  and  what  he  had,  yet  I  've  mentioned 
too  many  restaurants  to  make  another  excusable,  and 
anyhow  Charles's  mind  was  not  set  on  eating  just  then: 
at  least,  he  was  not  thinking  of  lunch,  but  of  tea.  But 
wherever  it  was,  he  sat  a  very  long  time  over  his  coffee 
and  cigar,  trying  to  kill  time.  So  slowly  moved  the  hands 
of  his  watch!  At  last,  impatient,  he  sent  a  chasseur  to 
his  hotel  for  his  fur  coat,  took  a  taxi-auto,  and  went  for  a 
drive  all  by  himself  in  the  Bois.  The  fading  sunshine 
helped  his  mood.  He  called  over  to  himself  all  the  three 
times  he  had  seen  Alison,  what  he  had  thought  when  he 


78  CAVIARE 

saw  her  first,  what  she  had  worn  each  time,  what  she 
had  said  to  him,  all  the  things  trivial  or  great  that  had 
happened  in  their  acquaintanceship.  He  had  forgotten 
entirely  that  feeling  of  being  in  the  cold  which  had  fol- 
lowed his  temporary  departure  from  the  table  last  night. 
Too  many  things  had  followed  it  for  him  to  remember 
that  one  solitary  event  which  might  have  depressed  him. 
And  then,  having  thought  of  all  these  things,  he  began  to 
make  plans.  .  .  .  But  he  'd  forgotten  to  telegraph  to  his 
man !  Good  heavens,  how  could  he  have  been  so  stupid ! 
Very  likely  his  man  was  convinced  by  now  that  his  mas- 
ter was  dead;  perhaps  the  police  of  Monaco  were  even 
now  circulating  his  description,  I  'd  overlooked  the 
necessity  of  telling  you  that  Charles,  when  a  couple  of 
evenings  before  he  had  left  the  Cafe  des  Trois  Vertus 
and  had  hastened  to  the  Gare  de  Lyon,  had  just  suc- 
ceeded in  seeing  the  tail  of  the  train  for  Monte  Carlo 
vanish  into  the  darkness.  The  programme  that  Charles 
had  made  had  been  carried  out  as  far  as  it  lay  in  his 
man's  power,  but,  not  finding  his  master  in  the  com- 
partment that  had  been  engaged,  he  had  been  passive: 
perhaps  Mr.  Caerleon  was  talking  to  a  friend  in  some 
other  carriage.  And  so  now  luggage  and  man  were 
seven  hundred  miles  away,  and  Charles  himself  was  man- 
aging without  any  clothes  to  speak  of,  doing  without 
assistance,  and  chafing  under  the  necessity  of  having  to 
wear  a  ready-made  shirt  and  collar. 

Charles  could  n't  even  be  sure  where  his  man  was. 
Would  he  have  the  sense  to  go  to  the  Paris  at  Monte 
Carlo?  And  if  he  wasn't  there,  where  would  he  be? 
Luckily,  Charles  had  retained  his  own  ticket  and  the 


MR.   GORHAM   EXPLAINS  79 

luggage  receipt.  To  the  telegraph  office,  then,  to  send  a 
telegram  to  tell  the  man  to  wait  instructions.  Perhaps 
he  would  get  it.  There  was  the  problem  of  the  address. 
Would  the  man  ask  for  letters  in  his  own  name  or  his 
master's?  He  compromised  it  by  addressing  it  "Cacr- 
leon  (for  his  valet  Bowles),  Hotel  de  Paris,  Monte  Carlo." 
Short  of  going  to  Monte  Carlo  himself,  that  was  the  best 
he  could  do. 

The  drive  and  the  sending  of  the  telegram  had  taken 
up  time.  It  was  now  four  o'clock,  and  Charles  felt  that 
he  could  at  last  with  propriety  go  to  look  for  the  Gor- 
hams  at  the  Meurice.  Indeed,  they  were  waiting  for  him. 
Mr.  Gorham,  a  little  unlike  the  man  whom  Charles  felt 
he  now  knew  so  well,  still  a  little  shaken,  a  little  less 
pink;  Alison,  the  same  as  ever,  only  more  so  —  more 
beautiful,  more  charming,  in  a  dress,  of  course,  that 
Charles  had  n't  seen  before.  Yes,  she  acknowledged  that 
she  still  felt  a  little  tired,  but  that  was  n't  the  result  of 
the  excitement,  —  that  was  nothing  to  be  tired  about, — 
but  of  the  walking  and  of  the  stopping  up  to  such  an 
unearthly  hour.  Then,  naturally,  they  fell  to  discussing 
their  adventure.  Charles  brought  the  subject  up  and 
kept  it  there  as  long  as  he  could,  not  for  his  own  aggran- 
disement, but  because  to  discuss  the  dangers  they  had 
shared  seemed  to  bring  him  closer  to,  into  more  intimate 
relationship  with,  Alison,  to  turn  him  into  an  old  friend. 
Mr.  Gorham  started  by  being  full  of  the  most  effusive 
thanks  to  Charles,  but  having  rendered  them  he  seemed 
to  wish  to  avoid  the  subject.  His  daughter,  though,  en- 
joyed too  much  fighting  her  battles  over  again  to  be 
willing  to  be  put  off. 


8o  CAVIARE 

"What  irritates  me,  as  I  Ve  been  telling  Papa,  Mr. 
Caerleon,  is  not  so  much  that  we  were  attacked,  but  that 
that  man  should  have  got  away.  I  'm  glad  generally  if  a 
thief  does  n't  get  caught,  but  I  do  think  that  pair  were 
the  limit.  Heaven  only  knows  what  they  'd  have  done 
with  Papa  when  they  'd  gone  through  his  pockets  and 
discovered  he  'd  only  got  pearl  studs,  a  gold  watch,  and 
perhaps  five  hundred  dollars.  Perhaps  they  'd  have  held 
him  to  ransom  like  the  Gioconda.  '  Loss  of  a  great  pic- 
ture and  of  a  great  American  citizen.  Is  it  a  plot?' 
Can't  you  see  it  on  the  bills,  Mr.  Caerleon?  Oh,  but, 
Papa,  why  did  n't  you  stick  to  him?" 

As  I  say,  Mr.  Gorham  had  every  appearance  of  being 
sick  of  the  whole  matter,  and  in  consequence,  although 
Charles  played  up,  Alison's  prattle  fell  rather  flat.  "  You 
stayed  up  too  late  last  night.  Papa.  That 's  why 
you  're  grumpy.  Well,  I  'm  so  tired  that  I  guess  I  '11  ask 
Mr.  Caerleon  to  excuse  me.  Don't  forget  to  arrange 
with  him  to  spend  a  respectable  evening  with  us  to-mor- 
row." And,  laughing  happily,  she  went  away. 

"I  'm  glad  she  's  gone,  Caerleon.  I  want  to  talk  to 
you.  It 's  fair  to  explain  to  you  about  last  night.  But  we 
can't  talk  here:  it 's  too  big  and  not  quiet  enough.  And 
we  can't  talk  upstairs :  my  room  is  next  to  Alison's,  and 
so 's  the  sitting-room,  and  she  'd  hear  us  and  wonder  what 
I  was  being  so  serious  about.  Let's  go  somewhere  else." 

Charles  knew  where  the  somewhere  else  would  be.  He 
had  learnt  Mr.  Gorham's  habits.  He  knew  the  type.  He 
doubted  whether  they  'd  be  able  to  talk  any  better  in  the 
discreet  bar  in  the  side  street  near  the  Opera  to  which 
Mr.  Gorham  now  took  him,  and  where,  if  the  truth  is 


MR.   GORHAM   EXPLAINS  8l 

told,  Charles  was  already  sufficiently  well  known.  Too 
many  pretty  ladies  came  in  and  out,  and  sat  at  high  stools 
and  drank  curiously  coloured  liquids  through  straws. 
Too  many  thick-necked  Frenchmen  with  their  hats 
shoved  well  to  the  back  of  their  heads  sat  and  wrote  notes 
which  they  sent  off  by  chasseurs.  The  Meurice  was  the 
quieter  atmosphere.  Still,  Mr.  Gorham  preferred  the 
bar  —  and  so  once  had  Charles. 

Arrived,  Mr.  Gorham  found  a  corner  as  far  removed  as 
possible  from  the  rest  of  the  guests,  and  he  and  Charles, 
sitting  down,  ordered  whiskies  and  sodas.  Evidently 
Mr.  Gorham  had  something  on  his  mind;  he  wasn't 
here  for  a  mere  chat.  He  had  spoken  of  "explaining"  — 
and  he  evidently  had  something  to  explain.  He  was 
nervous,  and  his  hands  and  eyes  showed  it. 

"Look  here,  Caerleon;  tell  me.  Did  you  notice  any- 
thing particular  about  those  men  last  night?" 

"No  —  nothing  particular.  They  seemed  pretty 
smart.  They  almost  got  you.  Their  plan  was  a  good  one." 

"Yes,  but  did  you  look  at  the  men  themselves?  Did 
anything  strike  you  about  either  of  them?" 

"  Now  you  ask  me,  I  remember  that  I  did  notice  that 
the  one  I  knocked  down  and  who  afterwards  escaped 
looked  an  odd  fish  to  be  in  that  galley.  He  looked  more 
like  an  Englishman  or  an  American  than  a  Frenchman, 
and  he  did  n't  look  the  criminal  type." 

"Well,  he  is  n't.  He  's  a  man  I  know  —  no,  not  to 
speak  to,  but  well  enough  by  sight.  An  American.  That's 
what  upset  me.  Perhaps  you  saw  it  gave  me  rather  a 
shock.  They  wanted  to  kidnap  me  all  right,  but  it 
was  n't  for  the  sake  of  what  I  might  have  in  my  pockets. 


82  CAVIARE 

and  it  was  n't  to  hold  me  for  ransom  as  Alison  suggested. 
No,  the  idea  was  to  get  me  away  and  to  keep  me  out  of 
things  for  a  week  or  so.  I  don't  know  whether  I  told  you, 
but  I  came  over  here  as  a  rest  after  the  deuce  of  a  fight 
in  Wall  Street.  I  practically  cleared  up  —  well,  it  does  n  't 
matter  how  much,  but  it  was  a  pile,  and  I  squeezed 
pretty  badly  half  a  dozen  men  who  don't  like  being 
squeezed,  and  who  generally  try  to  get  even,  when 
anyone  interferes  with  their  plans.  That 's  why  when  I 
got  them  where  I  wanted  them  I  came  over  here.  It  was 
a  stock  deal,  of  course,  —  railways.  All  I  had  to  do  was 
to  sit  tight  and  things  would  come  more  and  more  my 
way.  Of  course,  I  get  news  every  day  —  twice  a  day  at 
least  I  get  a  cable  from  my  agent,  and  then  I  tell  him 
what  to  do.  If  he  ceased  getting  instructions  from  me 
he  'd  do  nothing;  he  would  n't  know  what  to  do.  Only 
Cyrus  Gorham  knows  that.  Well,  if  they  'd  tied  me  up 
somewhere  where  I  could  n't  get  news  and  could  n't 
send  any  instructions,  all  my  work  would  crumble  away. 
They  'd  soon  have  me  where  I  've  got  them  now.  Do 
you  see?  Of  course,  it  was  only  a  forlorn  chance.  Even 
Old  Man  Pyle  would  ordinarily  draw  the  line  at  kid- 
napping." 

"Kidnapping!  —  well,  it  looked  to  me  as  if  they 
would  n't  draw  the  line  at  murder.  What  was  the  man 
doing  with  a  revolver?" 

"And  here  it  is,  too,"  said  Mr.  Gorham,  folding  his 
coat  back  a  little  so  as  to  show  the  stock  of  a  pistol  in 
his  breast-pocket.  "I  took  it  out  of  his  hand  just  after 
you  left  me  with  him  last  night.  I've  drawn  the  cart- 
ridges, of  course." 


MR.    GORHAM   EXPLAINS  83 

"Well,  it's  a  souvenir  of  the  evening,  anyway." 

"It 's  more  than  that,  my  boy."  Mr.  Gorham  was 
warming  up.  "It  's evidence!  Each  of  these  revolvers 
has  a  number,  and  I  dare  say  if  I  want  to  when  I  get 
back  I  '11  be  able  to  prove  that  this  was  bought  by  or 
belonged  to  one  of  Old  Man  Pyle's  gang.  That  'd  help 
some." 

Charles,  naturally,  was  more  than  interested;  he  was 
astonished.  Of  course,  he  knew  that  there  were  plenty 
of  Americans  ready  to  accuse  some  of  their  fellow-coun- 
trymen of  being  "malefactors  of  great  wealth,"  and  he 
knew  that  it  was  on  record  that  some  of  the  present-day 
financiers  had  n't  stuck  at  trifles  in  making  their  fortunes; 
but  then  that  was  in  America  itself .  Kidnapping,  and 
indeed  murder,  formed  part  of  the  programme  of  the 
San  Francisco  grafters  —  but  somehow  an  Englishman 
thinks  of  San  Francisco  as  a  place  outside  the  law,  full  of 
picturesque  ruffians  from  the  novels  of  Stevenson  and 
Frank  Norris.  Europe,  Paris,  was  different;  such  things 
could  n't  happen  here,  at  home. 

"Couldn't  they?"  Mr.  Gorham  answered  to  his 
doubts.  "Anything  can  happen  anywhere  if  you  've 
got  enough  money  to  pay  for  it.  Old  Man  Pyle's  got 
less  than  he  had  before  he  met  me,  but  he  's  got  enough 
left  to  put  across  a  little  job  like  this.  Besides,  the  man 
you  knocked  down  is  in  with  him  —  one  of  his  crowd;  he 
did  n't  have  to  find  or  square  him.  Tim  Gilder  has 
enough  at  stake  on  his  own  account." 

Charles,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  he  existed  more  or  less 
beautifully  on  an  income  which  he  did  not  earn,  and 
habitually  exceeded,  had  a  practical  mind.    "What  arc 


84  CAVIARE 

you  going  to  do  about  it?"  he  asked.  He  foresaw  that 
this  conversation  might  go  on  till  dinner-time  if  he 
did  n't  get  down  to  brass  tacks  (an  Americanism,  of 
course);  and  the  future  always  interested  him  more 
than  the  past. 

"What  am  I  going  to  do  about  it?  Why,  nothing. 
What  is  there  to  do?" 

"Well,  I  don't  see  that  the  friends  of  your  'Old  Man 
Pyle'  are  going  to  be  satisfied  with  one  failure.  Why, 
we  have  n't  even  set  the  police  on  them.  And  that 
reminds   me  .  .  .  That   man   getting   away  .  .  .  Did 


you 


-?" 


"Yes,  I  did.  I  let  him  go.  Directly  I  went  over  and 
looked  at  him  —  mind  you,  I  never  thought  till  then,  for 
a  single  second,  that  the  whole  thing  was  more  than  a 
common,  simple  robbery !  I  recognised  Tim  Gilder,  and 
that 's  why  I  sent  you  away.  I  don't  know  him,  but  I 
know  something  about  his  wife  and  kids.  I  guess  I  can 
look  after  myself,  whether  Gilder  's  in  the  pen  or  out  of 
it.  Oh,  yes.  I  know  it  was  pretty  foolish,  but  I  thought 
of  them;  and  then,  too,  I  thought  of  the  row  there  'd  be, 
the  scandal.  Lord !  they  might  keep  Alison  and  me  hang- 
ing about  Paris  for  months  over  the  affair.  I  can  just  see 
the  American  papers.  No,  I  'm  not  looking  for  fame  this 
journey." 

"I  can  understand  all  that,"  Charles  answered;  "but 
what  I  want  to  know  is  what  you  're  going  to  do  in  the 
future,  how  you  're  going  to  protect  yourself  to-day  and 
to-morrow?  They  nearly  got  you  last  night.  They 
would  have  got  you  if  it  had  n't  been  for  a  lucky  acci- 
dent" ("If  it  had  n't  been  for  you,  my  boy!"  Mr.  Gor- 


MR.   GORHAM    EXPLAINS  85 

ham  ejaculated);  "and  perhaps  if  you  're  not  jolly  care- 
ful they'll  get  you  next  time." 

"No,  I  don't  think.  I  will  be  jolly  careful.  They 
shan't  get  my  hide  so  easily  as  all  that.  I  '11  tell  you  what 
it  is,  Caerleon.  I  've  had  a  bit  of  a  fright,  and  I  made  up 
my  mind  this  morning,  before  I  went  to  sleep,  that  I 
would  n't  go  out  after  dark  while  I  'm  in  Paris,  or  while 
this  matter  's  still  open,  and  I  '11  be  careful  where  I  go  in 
the  daytime  too." 

"Well,  Mr.  Gorham,  you  know  your  own  business 
best.  I  don't  want  to  seem  impertinent,  but  if  I  were  you 
I  'd  add  about  a  hundred  per  cent  to  the  degree  of  care- 
fulness that  you  seem  to  think  sufficient.  I  'd  always 
have  somebody  with  me.  I  don't  know  whether  you  've 
got  any  friends  in  Paris." 

"Loads  my  boy.  There  's  a  bunch  round  at  the  Ritz 
now.  But  I  'm  not  a  baby  wanting  a  nurse;  I  can't  go 
and  ask  them  to  keep  with  me.  They  'd  think  I  was  mad. 
If  I  told  'em  the  reason,  the  whole  thing,  p'raps  they 
would  n't  believe  me  — and  if  they  did,  ten  to  one  they  'd 
fight  shy  at  the  idea  of  butting  in  on  Old  Man  Pyle's 
game." 

"Well,  you  seem  to  be  a  nice  cheerful  lot  of  com- 
panions-in-arms  in  New  York,  I  must  say.  Still,  I  'm  not 
afraid  of  your  'Old  Man  Pyle.'  He  can't  do  anything  to 
me.  And  I  don't  think  I  'm  much  afraid  of  your  other 
man  —  Gilder  's  his  name,  is  n't  it?  —  either.  We  've 
got  his  revolver!  So  count  on  me,  Mr.  Gorham.  I  '11 
look  after  you  when  you  want  me.  You  've  seen  I  'm 
not  such  a  bad  bodyguard." 

"Well,  that  's  real  good  of  you,  Caerleon,  and  I  'm 


86  CAVIARE 

going  to  take  you  at  your  word.  I  '11  get  you  to  walk 
back  to  the  hotel  with  me  now,  and  I  want  you  to  take 
dinner  with  us  to-morrow  night.  Where  did  Alison  tell 
me  to  say?  Oh,  I  know  —  Paillard's.  Eight  o'clock. 
We  won't  go  painting  the  town  red  afterwards :  I  '11  go 
home  and  lock  all  three  of  my  bedroom  doors." 

"You  mention  Miss  Gorham.  Does  she  know  about 
all  this?" 

"No,  sir.  Not  on  your  life.  Alison  spends  money; 
she  don't  know  anything  about  the  way  it  's  got.  Why, 
if  I  told  her  all  about  Old  Man  Pyle,  and  Gilder,  and 
that  bunch,  she  'd  get  real  upset,  as  likely  as  not.  No, 
I  'm  going  to  rely  on  you  all  you  let  me,  and  I  '11  take 
care  of  myself,  but  —  well,  not  a  word  to  Alison." 

"Perhaps  you  know  best,  Mr.  Gorham.  I  'd  have 
thought,  though,  that  if  Miss  Gorham  is  even'possibly 
to  have  again  the  kind  of  adventure  she  had  last  night, 
she  ought  to  know  what  it 's  all  about.  It  prepares  her, 
anyway." 

"Yes,  but  we  shan't  have  any  more  excitements  like 
that.  Now  I  know  that  they  're  after  me  to  this  extent 
I  intend  to  keep  in  my  hole.  They  can't  dig  me  out  at 
the  Meurice.  Besides,  the  affair  will  be  at  an  end  in  a 
fortnight  or  so.  .  .  ." 

Mr.  Gorham  seemed  to  think  the  subject  had  been 
sufficiently  discussed.  After  all,  from  his  point  of  view, 
it  was  simple.  All  he  had  to  do  was  to  sit  tight,  to  be 
sensible,  to  stick  to  the  main  streets  and  daylight.  True, 
it  was  dark  now,  but  he  had  Charles  with  him.  It  was  a 
pretty  clever  kidnapper  who  'd  manage  the  two  of  them 
in  the  Avenue  de  I'Opera  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening. 


MR.    GORHAM  EXPLAINS  87 

All  the  same,  as  they  went  out  of  the  bar  Charles 
looked  round  with  a  nervous  interest.  There  were  the 
usual  half-dozen  semi-private  motors ;  one  or  two  hangers- 
on  seemed  to  belong  to  the  atmosphere,  and  could  n't 
by  any  stretch  of  imagination  be  translated  into  crimi- 
nals sent  from  Wall  Street.  Charles  was  almost  disap- 
pointed. If  you  do  find  yourself  involved  in  a  plot  of 
this  kind  it  's  more  fun  to  have  it  thick  and  slab.  He 
did  n't  know  that  both  the  American  detective  and  the 
American  criminal  did  their  "watching"  in  too  intelli- 
gent a  manner  to  be  caught  so  easily. 

And  so,  soberly,  quietly,  without  incident,  they 
walked  back  to  the  Meurice.  Nothing  occurred  to  excite 
Charles's  mind.  He  even  made  a  little  experiment. 
They  were  passing  the  shop  of  the  excellent  Monsieur 
Kleinberger,  which,  as  you  know,  is  only  a  few  doors 
round  the  corner  from  the  avenue.  Charles  stopped  Mr. 
Gorham,  under  the  pretence  of  being  interested  in  an 
Early  Dutch  picture.  But  he  was  really  looking  over  his 
right  shoulder  at  the  passers-by  in  the  avenue,  and  at 
the  people  who  turned  into  the  Rue  de  I'Echelle  itself. 
Nobody  passed,  and  nobody  came  —  at  least,  nobody 
who  took  the  slightest  interest  in  either  Mr.  Gorham  or 
his  companion. 

Leaving  Mr.  Gorham  at  his  hotel,  Charles  thought  to 
himself  that  it  was  just  possible  that  his  elderly  Ameri- 
can friend  suffered  from  hallucinations.  He  remem- 
bered that  there  was  a  disease  known  as  the  mania  of 
persecution. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

PERHAPS   MISS   GORHAM   HAS   PNEUMONIA 

CHARLES  was  letting  things  get  by  him.  He, 
who  had  n't  intended  to  stop  in  Paris  at  all,  had 
been  in  that  happy  city  for  two  nights  and  two 
days,  and  he  had  neither  plans  nor  clothes,  neither  busi- 
ness nor  actual  occupation.  To  kill  time  in  a  place  like 
Paris,  if  you  are  looking  forward  to  some  hour  or  day,  is 
rather  worse  than  being  on  a  treadmill.  Here  he  was, 
with  an  engagement  for  dinner  at  eight  o'clock  the  next 
day  —  just  twenty -five  hours  off  —  and  he  was  thrash- 
ing his  brain  as  to  how  he  was  to  spend  the  time  that 
must  pass.  Paris  is  a  place  that  requires,  demands,  the 
whole  heart  of  its  votary.  Charles  had  no  longer  a  whole 
heart  to  give  it.  .  .  . 

He  looked  at  his  Baedeker;  he  looked  at  certain  notes 
he  had  made  in  his  diary.  There  were  all  sorts  of  people, 
at  the  Embassy  and  elsewhere,  he  might  go  and  see,  but 
he  did  n't  want  to  see  them.  How  was  he  to  account  for 
his  delay  in  going  South?  He  had  n't  seen  the  Cluny 
Museum  for  a  long  time :  he  might  go  there  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  in  the  afternoon  he  might  brave  the  rugosities 
of  Monsieur  VoUard's  temperament,  and  see  whatever 
Cezannes,  Picassos,  and  Gauguins  that  amiable  dealer 
would  show  him;  then  the  Galeries  Durand-Ruel  were 
always  good  for  an  hour  or  so.  But  these  were  for  to- 
morrow.   Characteristically  he  solved  the  difficulty. 


PERHAPS  MISS  GORHAM  HAS  PNEUMONIA     89 

Remembering  that  he  'd  only  slept  for  a  couple  of  hours 
on  the  previous  night,  and  not  wanting  to  dress,  he 
walked  quickly  down  to  the  Tour  d'Argent,  had  a  barbue 
Ilousman,  an  entrecote  Bordelaise,  some  Brie,  and  a  bottle 
—  a  whole  bottle  —  of  Gorton,  and  then,  having  secured 
beforehand,  in  spite  of  the  strike,  a  taxi,  drove  straight- 
way to  his  hotel.  By  nine  o'clock  he  was  in  bed,  and  by 
nine-five  he  was  asleep,  and  he  was  still  asleep  the  next 
morning  at  eight  o'clock,  when,  as  usual,  he  had  com- 
manded his  coffee.  And  let  me  hasten  to  add  that  with 
his  coffee  came  a  little  blue  folded  paper,  with  a  type- 
written telegraphic  message  from  the  good  Bowles:  "am 
here  sir  have  no  money  can't  get  luggage  obediently 
bowles."  For  the  moment,  however,  the  telegram  got  no 
attention. 

The  truth  was  that,  although  Charles  did  n't  know  it, 
all  through  the  previous  evening,  and  through  all  the 
hours  since  he  had  left  Mr.  Gorham,  his  mind  had 
been  working  at  one  problem.  What  was  he  to  do  about 
Alison?  And  suddenly,  at  eleven  o'clock,  when  he  was 
conscientiously  carrying  out  his  time-killing  programme, 
and  examining  with  absent-minded  appreciation  the 
manifold  beauties  of  the  Cluny,  light  came  to  him.  He 
must  tell  Mr.  Gorham.  He  left  the  place  more  quickly 
than  he  had  entered  it.  At  the  Taverne  Lorraine  he  found 
ink  and  paper:  — 

Dear  Mr.  Gorham,  —  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
dining  with  you  this  evening,  but  I  wish  I  might  have 
a  talk  with  you  first.  There  's  a  good  deal  I  want  to  say 
connected,  directly  and  indirectly,  with  what  you  told 


90  CAVIARE 

me  yesterday.    I  wish  you  'd  send  me  a  note  to  the 
Chatham  to  say  if  we  can't  meet  at  four  o'clock. 
Yours  very  sincerely, 

Charles  Caerleon. 

A  disingenuous  note.  You  see,  Charles  did  n't  want  her 
father  to  show  it  to  Alison,  and  perhaps,  after  all,  it 
was  n't  so  entirely  unfair  to  say  that  what  he  wanted  to 
talk  about  bore  "directly  and  indirectly"  on  the  subject 
of  Mr.  Gorham's  revelations.  By  twenty  past  eleven  the 
letter  was  on  its  way,  and  at  two  o'clock  Charles  was 
back  at  the  Chatham.  What  if  Mr.  Gorham,  anxious  to 
make  the  most  of  the  daylight  hours,  had  been  out? 
No,  an  answer  was  there :  — 

My  Dear  Mr.  Caerleon  [the  use  of  the  "My"  is 
peculiarly  American],  —  Alison  is  in  bed :  we  shall  have 
to  dine  alone.  So  I  dare  say  what  you  have  to  say  — 
and  I  know  it  will  be  worth  while  listening  to  —  will 
wait  till  we  meet  at  eight  at  Paillard's.  No  —  perhaps, 
after  the  lecture  you  read  me,  you  won't  mind  fetching 
me.  I  feel  like  a  baby  who  can't  be  allowed  out  without 
a  nurse!  I  '11  expect  you  at  7.45.  I  've  ordered  dinner. 
Yours  very  faithfully, 

Cyrus  Gorham. 

P.S.  —  I'm  sure  you'll  be  reassured  to  hear  that  I  *ve 
put  the  cartridges  back  in  that  revolver. 

P.P.S.  —  There  is  n't  anything  really  the  matter  with 
Alison.  She  knows  I  'm  writing  to  you,  and  sends  you 
her  messages. 


PERHAPS  MISS  GORHAM  HAS  PNEUMONIA    91 

Now,  this  was  all  very  well,  but  it  was  very  much 
calculated  to  disturb  Charles's  equanimity,  and  to  fan 
his  growing  passion.  In  one  way,  it  was  no  disadvantage 
to  be  able  to  talk  to  Mr.  Gorham  rather  over  a  dinner- 
table  than  in  the  troubled  atmosphere  of  some  shady 
cafe.  But  Charles  had  been  so  greatly  looking  forward  to 
seeing  Alison  again.  .  .  .  Why,  he  had  hardly  spoken 
to  her  since  that  adventurous  night!  And,  again,  she 
was  ill.  What  illness  might  not  have  attacked  a  young 
girl  exposed  to  the  cold  breezes  of  a  Parisian  early 
morning?  Bronchitis.  Pneumonia.  If  there  was  n't 
"anything  really"  the  matter  with  her,  why  did  n't  she 
dine  with  them,  if  not  at  Paillard's,  then  in  the  repose  of 
her  own  hotel? 

However,  thinking  cures  no  such  evil.  There  was  eight 
o'clock  to  wait  for. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  DECLARES  HIS  SUIT 

MR.  GORHAM  at  dinner  was  cheery  enough. 
Evidently  he  had  recovered  his  balance.  He 
talked  with  enthusiasm  about  Paris,  about 
New  York,  about  the  kind  of  thing  Alison  and  he  would 
next  do  to  amuse  themselves.  The  confidences  of  the 
evening  before  had  evidently  loosened  the  strings  of  his 
mind.  He  was  more  disposed  to  treat  Charles  as  a 
friend,  as  someone  he  had  known  longer  than  for  the  two 
or  three  days  since  first  they  had  actually  met.  He  ex- 
plained a  good  deal  of  the  operations  he  had  been  en- 
gaged on  in  New  York,  the  affair  that  had  disturbed  the 
equanimity  of  his  "Old  Man  Pyle"  —  but,  he  explained 
with  reservations.  Whether  he  was  a  "  bull "  or  a  "  bear," 
and  on  which  particular  railway  he  was  exercising  his 
talents  for  speculation  —  these  ultimate  facts  he  kept  to 
himself.  Nor  was  Charles  very  curious  to  learn.  He 
would  have  preferred  to  think  that  Mr.  Gorham's  activ- 
ity was  constructive,  but  it  was  a  great  thing  to  know 
that  it  was  successful.  All  this  enterprising  American 
had  to  say  was  interesting:  he  made  things  live.  Charles, 
who  had  a  reader's  knowledge  of  Wall  Street,  —  the 
kind  of  knowledge  you  get  from  reading  the  "  Saturday 
Evening  Post,"  Edwin  Lefevre,  and  Will  Payne,  — 
began  to  feel  that  he  understood  the  place  at  last.  Stock 
Exchange  gambling  was  not  much  to  his  taste.  Hardly 


CHARLES    DECLARES    HIS   SUIT  93 

could  he  recall  any  flutter  in  stocks  and  shares  in  London. 
But  Wall  Street  was  so  dramatic,  so  picturesque,  so 
romantic  even.   The  people  all  stood  out  so  vividly  — 

"But  now,  my  dear  young  friend,"  —  Mr.  Gorham 
was  wont  to  become  both  paternal  and  familiar  after  a 
good  meal,  —  "what  new  advice  have  you  got  to  give 
me?  I  'm  listening  to  all  that  comes.  Perhaps  I  '11  take 
it.  You  seem  to  me  to  have  a  head-piece,  and  that,  if  I 
may  say  so  without  offence,  is  more  than  most  young 
Englishmen  seem  to  have.  What  I  like  about  you  is  that 
you  're  a  live  wire,  and  you  don't  get  flurried.  A  useful 
man  in  a  scrap!" 

They  had  dined  well.  Charles  not  only  ordered  good 
dinners  himself,  but  he  was  the  cause  of  good  dinners 
in  others.  With  him  as  guest,  somehow  or  other,  even 
the  most  careless  host  did  n't  push  the  carte  across  the 
table,  as  if  to  say,  "Order  what  you  like:  /  shall  have 
steak-and-kidney  pudding."  There  was  something 
about  his  attitude  as  he  sat  at  table  that  suggested  that 
he  expected  to  lunch  or  dine  as  the  case  might  be,  and 
not  simply  to  feed.  Mr.  Gorham  had  realised  that.  He 
had  shown  a  proper  appreciation  of  his  position,  and, 
with  the  tactful  assistance  of  the  maitre  d'hotel,  had,  as 
we  have  seen,  ordered  the  dinner  beforehand.  Now  they 
had  reached  the  coffee. 

"What  new  advice  have  you  to  give  me?"  That  is 
what  Mr.  Gorham  had  asked  —  and,  of  course,  Charles 
had  no  new  advice  to  give  either  to  Mr.  Gorham  or  to 
anyone  else.  Rather  was  he  seeking  advice,  guidance, 
encouragement.  However,  there  it  was:  Mr.  Gorham, 
by  his  questions,  had  brought  the  conversation  down  to 


94  CAVIARE 

brass  tacks.  Charles  could  n't  very  well  bring  it  back 
to  a  discussion  of  the  possibilities  of  a  coal  strike  in  Eng- 
land, or  to  an  indictment  of  the  New  York  customs- 
house.  He  either  had  to  offer  some  new  advice  —  or  he 
had  to  come  to  his  own  business.  He  was  n't  happy;  his 
mouth  was  dry.  Excusing  himself  for  a  moment,  he 
went  out  through  the  little  lobby  on  to  the  boulevard, 
and  sought  courage  and  inspiration  of  the  fresh  air  and 
of  the  twinkling  lights.  But  in  vain.  Returning,  still  his 
mouth  was  dry,  still  his  courage  was  to  seek.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Gorham,  I  've  given  you  all  the  advice  I  ' ve  got 
to  give.  I  hope  it 's  all  right :  it  's  what  I  think  is  best  — 
but  I  want  to  talk  about  something  more  important 
than  that,  more  important  to  me  — " 

"Well,  I  do  like  that!"  Mr.  Gorham  ejaculated. 

"Yes,  more  important  to  me,  and  I  do  think  more 
important  to  you.  It  is  n't  altogether  my  fault.  It 's 
chance,  perhaps.  But,  anyhow,  fate  has  thrown  me  the 
last  few  days  very  much  in  your  daughter's  company, 
and  I  —  I  love  her.  No  —  I  know  what  you  want  to 
ask.  You  want  to  know  if  I  've  told  her.  I  have  n't.  I  '11 
tell  you  why."  Charles  was  thoroughly  wound  up  now. 
He  had  to  go  ahead.  He  wanted  to  get  out  what  he  had 
to  say  before  he  was  interrupted.  He  just  could  n't  let 
Mr.  Gorham  butt  in.  "  I  did  n't  tell  her,  because  —  well, 
because,  perhaps,  up  to  the  present  I  have  n't  had  much 
chance,  and  because  I  did  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  first. 
If  you  object  —  well,  I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do,  but 
I  want  you  not  to  object.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me." 
Mr.  Gorham  was  listening  right  enough:  there  was  no 
mistake  about  that.  "  I  thought  I  ought  to  tell  you  first, 


CHARLES    DECLARES   HIS   SUIT  95 

because  —  well,  just  because  you  are  —  well,  you  're  an 
American  and  rich  like  all  Americans,  and  you  may 
want  Miss  Gorham"  —  he  was  almost  saying  "Alison," 
but  he  choked  the  name  back  —  "to  marry  a  title  and  a 
man  perhaps  as  rich  as  herself.  I  have  n't  got  a  title, 
and  I  'm  not  rich,  — but  you  do  know  something  about 
my  people,  and  it  happens  you  've  had  a  good  many 
opportunities  of  knowing  me :  I ' ve  not  got  a  title  and 
I  've  not  got  much  money,  but  mine  is  a  family.  I  know 
my  brother  would  approve.  And  as  for  the  money  — 
well,  I  've  got  some,  and  though,  of  course,  I  have  n't 
done  much  work  up  to  the  present,  there  is  n't  any 
reason  why  I  should  n't  .  .  ." 

But  Mr.  Gorham's  patience  was  exhausted.  He 
wanted  to  talk  a  little  himself  now.  He  could  n't  wait, 
in  fact. 

"Hold  hard,  Caerleon.  Don't  go  so  fast.  You  've  not 
told  Alison,  you  say.  So  much  the  better.  I  respect  you 
for  it.  Most  of  the  hundred  or  so  young  men  —  Ameri- 
can and  French  and  Austrian  and  God  knows  what  — 
who  've  wanted  to  marry  her  have  n't  been  so  consider- 
ate. But  let 's  consider  your  proposition.  You  must  n't 
take  offence.  Let 's  deal  with  your  last  remark  first. 
There  is  n't  any  reason  why  you  should  n't  work,  you 
say.  I  wonder.  I  'm  not  so  sure.  How  old  are  you?  I 
remember:  thirty-three.  Well,  if  self-respect  hasn't 
made  you  go  out  and  do  something  by  now,  I  don't  quite 
see  how  you  're  going  to  begin. .  Yes.  I  know  Alison  is 
an  inducement.  But  I  'm  not  offering  Alison  as  a  reward 
to  idle  young  Englishmen  for  working  hard  at  making  a 
couple  of  thousand  dollars  a  year.  That 's  not  my  way. 


96  CAVIARE 

How  much  more  do  you  think  you  'd  be  able  to  make? 
Not  much,  I  'm  afraid.  And  now,  let 's  take  your  other 
points.  You  have  n't  a  title.  But  don't  make  any  mis- 
take there,  Caerleon:  I  set  Alison's  happiness  far  away 
above  titles.  No  dukes  for  Cyrus  Gorham  —  unless  a 
duke  happens  along  that  Alison  really  and  truly  wants 
for  his  own  sake.  All  the  same,  a  title  and  no  money  is 
better  than  no  title  and  no  money.  If  a  man  is  a  duke  or 
an  earl  and  does  n't  do  any  work  —  well,  I  don't  know 
that  one  can  exactly  blame  him.  He  's  up  against  it.  I 
should  think  he  'd  find  it  rather  diflBcult  to  get  people  to 
take  him  seriously  if  he  wanted  to  work.  But  if  a  man 's 
like  you,  and  he  does  n't  do  any  work  —  well,  he  's  a  — 
well,  he  's  a  man  who  does  n't  want  to  do  any,  and  who 
is  n't  likely  to  begin."  Mr.  Gorham  paused,  and  clapped 
his  hands.  The  waiter  appeared.  "Bring  me  the  paper 
out  of  my  overcoat  pocket  —  number  8,"  he  said. 
The  paper  was  brought  —  a  New  York  "Sun." 
"Now,  look  here.  This  came  in  while  I  was  dressing. 
Listen :  — 

"  It  is  known  that  the  father  of  Miss  Rolker  did  not  at 
first  look  with  favour  on  the  Prince's  suit.  He  liked  the 
nobleman  as  a  friend,  but  as  a  son-in-law  —  that  was 
different.  The  Prince  announced  that  he  was  willing  to 
go  to  work,  and  the  understanding  is  that  when  he  comes 
back  in  the  latter  part  of  April,  he  will  be  got  a  job  in 
some  company  in  which  Mr.  Rolker  is  interested." 

Charles  did  listen.  Indeed,  he  had  listened  to  all  Mr. 
Gorham  had  said,  and  while  he  knew  that  his  suit  was 


CHARLES    DECLARES  HIS  SUIT  97 

not  exactly  prospering,  yet,  on  the  other  hand,  if  words 
meant  anything,  one  happy  fact  stood  out.  There  had 
been  "a  hundred  or  so"  young  men  in  love  with  AUson, 
but  no  one  of  them  had  yet  prevailed.  Mr.  Gorham  had 
framed  all  his  sentences  as  if  Alison's  future  was  still 
undecided.  Surely  it  was.  But  Mr.  Gorham  was  con- 
tinuing: — 

"Now,  that's  the  kind  of  damn  fool  that  so  many  of 
us  Americans  are.  Who's  this  prince?  The  papers  give 
him  a  capital  '  P.'  But  who  is  he?  "  Charles  did  n't  know. 
"Of  course  you  don't.  Nor  any  one  else  either.  But  the 
point  is:  what  'job'  can  he  do?  N-O-N-E."  Mr.  Gor- 
ham spelt  out  the  monosyllable.  "  He  can  go  to  an  office 
and  hold  down  a  desk,  but  he  '11  never  do  any  work.  And 
after  about  a  week  he  won't  even  pretend  to.  And, 
what 's  more,  his  father-in-law  won't  evenw^ant  him  to 
pretend  to.  I  'm  not  going  to  have  any  nonsense  of  that 
kind  with  Alison.  Now,  the  third  point.  You  say  you  've 
got  some  money.  What 's  '  some  money '  ?  I  '11  wager  — 
now,  I  don't  want  to  be  offensive,  Caerleon,  but  you 
must  let  me  say  what  I  have  to  say  —  now  I  '11  wager 
that  you've  got  less  than  would  pay  for  Alison's  cars, 
less  very  likely  than  would  pay  her  dressmaker's  bills." 

And  having  in  this  last  sentence  done  his  daughter  an 
injustice,  Mr.  Gorham  paused.  An  injustice,  because 
Alison  was  very  far  from  being  one  of  those  women  who 
spend  money  like  water  on  clothes  they  never  wear.  She 
never  would  have  served  as  an  awful  example  of  feminine 
extravagance  of  the  kind  that  the  cheap  magazines  hold 
up  to  the  wonder  and  envy  of  their  half-million  readers. 
"What  it  Costs  a  Woman  to  Dress  in  the  Smart  Set." 


98  CAVIARE 

Indeed,  Alison  was  only  in  "the  Smart  Set"  to  the 
extent  to  which  her  father's  connections  made  absolutely 
inevitable.  Well  dressed  she  was,  as  Charles  knew,  but 
her  well-dressing  was  reasonable. 

Mr.  Gorham  had  only  paused.  Before  Charles  could 
come  to  the  rescue  of  his  own  character  against  the 
attacks  implied  in  what  had  been  said,  he  began  again: 

"  But  even  if  you  had  quite  a  lot  of  money,  I  would  n't 
wish  Alison  to  marry  you.  You  know  I  like  you,  Caer- 
leon;  I  do,  and  I  have  reason  to.  But  there  's  all  the 
difference  in  the  world  between  liking  a  man  and  wanting 
to  trust  him  with  one's  daughter.  Your  trouble  is,  you 
are  n't  a  worker.  We  like  workers  in  America.  A  man 
who  has  no  work  to  do  is  n't  likely  to  avoid  mischief. 
It  'd  be  a  bit  different  if  you  had  an  estate.  That  might 
occupy  you.  But  your  brother  's  got  that.  If  he  dies  — 
which  the  Lord  forbid !  —  and  if  his  two  boys  die,  and 
if  your  two  other  brothers,  both  of  whom  seem  to  be 
fairly  well  and  hearty  (you  see,  I  thought  what  we  've 
been  talking  about  might  happen,  and  I  've  been  looking 
you  up  in  'Debrett'),  go  to  heaven  —  well,  then,  you  '11 
come  into  title  and  estate.  But  we  need  n't  reckon  on 
that  — " 

Here  Charles  jumped  in.  "Mr.  Gorham,  you  don't 
wrap  things  up;  I  won't  either.  I  love  your  daughter. 
I  've  told  you  that  —  I  've  given  you  notice  of  it,  so  to 
speak.  Now,  I  propose  to  tell  her.  She  's  of  age.  If  she 
can't  love  me  —  well,  that 's  the  end,  I  suppose;  but,  if 
she  can,  if  she  does,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it? 
I  'm  not  a  fortune-hunter  —  heaven  knows !  I  think 
you  'd  acquit  me  of  that." 


CHARLES   DECLARES  HIS  SUIT  99 

Mr.  Gorham  assented  with  a  grim  smile. 

"No,  nor  do  I  want  your  money.  I've  got  nearly 
fifteen  hundred  a  year  of  my  own."  Charles  was  a 
little  sanguine :  it  had  once  reached  fifteen  hundred,  but 
that  was  in  a  peculiarly  good  year;  nor  did  his  figures 
take  heed  of  the  inroads  that  his  little  extravagances 
had  made  in  his  income :  his  capital  he  could  n't  touch, 
but  there  was,  and  there  had  been,  nothing  to  prevent 
his  borrowing,  and  paying  the  interest  out  of  income 
while  he  looked  for  a  windfall.  "If  Miss  Gorham  can 
care  for  me  I  will,  in  spite  of  what  you  say,  find  work. 
Friends  offered  me  work  when  I  came  down  from  Oxford. 
I  shall  ask  Miss  Gorham.  I  do  not  think  that  is  unfair. 
I  love  her  too  much  to  give  her  up  just  because  you 
prefer  an  American  son-in-law." 

"I  didn't  say  so,"  Mr.  Gorham  answered.  "As  a 
matter  of  fact,  if  you  had  any  good  working  qualities, 
I  'd  as  soon  have  you  for  a  son-in-law  as  anyone  else  I  've 
seen  —  rather,  I  don't  mind  saying.  Besides,  I  like  your 
spirit.  If  Alison  '11  marry  you  (and  everything  is  possible 
with  a  girl),  whether  I  approve  or  not,  and  if,  what  is 
even  more,  you  don't  care  whether  she  has  money  or 
not  —  well,  I  don't  quite  see  what  I  'm  to  do  to  stop  it. 
Look  here,  Caerleon,  I  '11  make  a  bargain  with  you.  If 
you  will  promise  me  not  to  speak  to  Alison  about  this 
now,  and  if  you  will  in  the  mean  time  both  look  for  work 
and  put  your  back  into  it  when  you  get  it,  then,  in  a 
year's  time,  if  she  's  still  free,  I  '11  withdraw  my  not  very 
strong  opposition.  You  shall  have  your  chance.  What 
do  you  say?  Much  of  what  I  saitl  just  now  I  said,  frankly, 
to  try  you,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  if  you're  in 


100  CAVIARE 

love  with  Alison,  I  believe,  now  I  come  to  think  it  over, 
that  Alison  's  more  than  half  in  love  with  you.  Any- 
how, I  don't  think  you  '11  lose  anything  by  waiting 
and  not  speaking  now.  She  won't  forget  you  in  such  a 
hurry." 

It  never  took  Charles  long  to  make  up  his  mind.  "  Yes, 
sir,  I  agree  to  that.  I  suppose  I  may  see  Miss  Gorham 
as  usual  in  the  mean  time?" 

"Now,  there  you  go.  How  can  you  see  her  in  the 
mean  time  if  you  're  away  looking  for  work,  and  working? 
Why,  we,  as  you  know,  are  going  to  Rome  and  Egypt 
and  God  knows  where.  And  even  while  we  're  in  Paris, 
you  won't  find  work  at  the  Chatham  bar  or  places  like 
this." 

Charles  flushed;  he  knew  Mr.  Gorham  was  right.  "I 
mean,  may  I  see  her  and  you  while  you  remain  in  Paris, 
just  as  if  we  had  not  had  this  talk?" 

"No,  sir,  you  may  not.  You  can  —  if  you  're  wise  — 
go  away  from  Paris  —  we  '11  come  to  that  directly. 
Alison  said  that,  as  she  could  n't  be  here  to-night,  I  was 
to  ask  you  to  dine  to-morrow.  I  am  doing  so  now.  And, 
when  you  go  —  and  I  hope  it  will  be  the  next  day  — 
not  that  I  shan't  be  sorry  to  lose  you  —  we  '11  come  and 
see  you  off,  and  wish  you  good  luck." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Gorham.  I  understand,  and  I  appre- 
ciate what  you  say.  I  don't  think  you  're  treating  me 
unfairly.  The  day  after  to-morrow  I  '11  clear  out  of  Paris 
and  go  and  see  my  friends  in  England,  and  see  what 
work  I  can  get." 

"Now,  listen  to  me.  What  work  do  you  expect  to  get? 
You  say  that,  when  you  left  Oxford,  friends  offered  you 


CHARLES   DECLARES  HIS  SUIT  loi 

work.  Does  n't  it  occur  to  you  that  they  ofiFered  you 
work  just  in  order  to  prevent  your  becoming  a  — " 

" — a  v/aster,"  Charles  ejaculated,  bitterly. 

"No,  that 's  nonsense;  you  're  not  a  waster :  an  idler  is 
the  word  I  wanted.  They  likely  did  it  just  to  prevent 
your  drifting  about  as  you  've  been  doing.  Besides,  that 
was  ten  years  ago.  You  had  n't  got  the  lazy  habits  then 
that  you  have  now.  And  you  were  younger.  No,  you 
won't  get  any  real  work  in  England.  You  must  go  to 
America  or  Canada  —  Australia  's  no  use  to  you :  it 's 
too  far  off:  no  sooner  'd  you  get  there  than  you  'd  be 
thinking  of  coming  back,  because  your  year  was  nearly 
up.  I  '11  do  something  for  you.  Not  what  that  man  we 
were  reading  about  just  now  proposes  to  do  for  his 
prince.  I  think  you  're  serious.  I  '11  give  you  a  letter  of 
introduction  to  some  people  I  know  in  New  York. 
You  're  interested  in  railway  matters  —  well,  if  you 
make  a  good  impression,  they  'd  give  you  a  job  over 
there,  I  dare  say.  Mind  you,  I  shan't  write  any  other 
letter  to  them  than  that  I  '11  give  you  to  take.  And  you 
can  read  that." 

Charles  thanked  him. 

"No,  you  need  n't  thank  me.  I  'm  taking  the  easiest 
way  out  of  a  difficulty.  I  like  you  well  enough  to  want 
you  to  have  every  chance.  I  don't  much  believe  in  a 
man  who  's  been  an  idler  till  he  's  your  age  suddenly 
starting  work  —  but,  we  '11  see.  If  you  make  good  in 
America,  then,  if  Alison  wants  you,  I  shan't  say  no.  If 
you  don't  make  good,  I  hope  you'll  have  the  good  feel- 
ing to  stop  away,  and  then  we  slian't  have  any  trouble. 
Besides,  you  may  change  your  mind." 


102  CAVIARE 

"No  fear  of  that,  Mr.  Gorham.  And  I  want  you  to 
understand.  I  '11  work  just  as  hard  as  I  can:  I  won't 
muff  my  chances  if  I  can  help  it  —  but  —  well,  if  I 
don't  make  good,  as  you  call  it,  I  don't  promise  to  relin- 
quish my  attempt  to  marry  Miss  Gorham.  After  all, 
fifteen  hundred  a  year,  say,  is  enough  to  live  on  —  and 
I  'm  sure  to  get  more  later  on." 

"Waiting  for  dead  men's  shoes  is  n't  worth  while,  my 
boy.  You  should  n't  bank  on  that." 

"  I 'm  not  banking  on  it.  .  .  ."  Charles  thought  it  was 
time  to  get  on  to  less  dangerous,  less  personal  topics. 
"But  you  must  tell  me  about  New  York.  I  've  never 
been  there.  They  don't  like  Englishmen  there  much,  do 
they?" 

"They  like  them  all  right  if  they  're  likeable.  There 
are  a  lot  of  things  you  'd  have  to  cut'out.  That  eyeglass, 
if  you  can.  They  don't  like  eyeglasses  in  America.  And 
the  spats  you  wear  —  spats,  you  call  'em,  don't  you?  I 
once  knew  an  Englishman  who  went  to  see  the  President 
—  Roosevelt  —  at  the  White  House  in  spats  and  an 
eyeglass,  but  I  rather  fancy  he  must  have  done  it  for  a 
bet.  He  left  the  country  pretty  soon  after.  It 's  too  much 
to  expect  you  to  change  your  way  of  speaking  in  a  few 
days,  but  if  you  only  could  get  to  talk  decent  American 
it  'd  help  a  lot." 

"What  do  you  call  decent  American?" 

"Why,  the  way  Americans  talk.  You  English  people 
talk  like  the  guys  they  give  the  comic  parts  to  in  the 
theatres  —  English  parts,  I  mean.  We  never  realise 
that  itj's  anything  else  but  burlesque,  something  quite 
impossible,  till  we  get  to  London  and  hear  everyone 


CHARLES  DECLARES  HIS  SUIT  103 

talking  it.  And  get  some  clothes  made  by  an  American 
tailor.  Wear  something  that  does  n't  look  as  if  you  'd 
grown  out  of  it." 

Mr.  Gorham  had  helped  himself  to  the  old  brandy  of 
the  house  more  than  once  since  they  had  begun  their 
serious  conversation,  and  Charles  looked  at  him  to  see  if 
he  was  any  the  worse  for  it.  Or  was  he,  in  spite  of  his 
apparent  good-nature  of  a  few  minutes  ago,  wanting  to 
pick  a  quarrel?  Or  was  he  a  humourist?  There  was 
nothing  to  show.  He  looked  both  benign  and  serious. 
He  was  always  pink. 

"I  '11  see  what  I  can  do  to  improve  myself,"  Charles 
said.  He  did  n't  even  throw  a  sarcastic  note  into  his 
voice.  If  it  had  n't  been  for  Alison,  though,  he  'd  have 
countered  Mr.  Gorham's  criticisms  with  the  indictment 
of  American  clothes,  manners,  speech  that  trembled  on 
the  end  of  his  tongue.  Watch-ribbons  from  which  hang 
imitation  Regency  ornaments;  "rubbers";  the  use  of 
"nope"  and  "yep"  for  the  more  gracious  "no"  and 
"yes";  the  built-up  shoulders  and  baggy  legs  of  the 
American  "business  suit"  —  no,  the  list  is  too  long. 
To  each  nation  its  own  foolishness,  he  said  to  himself. 
But,  all  the  same,  he  registered  a  mental  vow  that,  unless 
the  winning  of  Alison  altogether  depended  on  it,  he 
would  n't  give  up  his  eyeglass. 

The  evening  seemed  at  an  end.  They  had  been  longer 
talking  than  Charles  had  realised.  Mr.  Gorham  paid  his 
bill.  Nothing  should,  nothing  was  to  happen  that  night. 
Charles  was  an  organiser.  Refusing  the  services  of  the 
taxis  that  were  waiting  outside  the  restaurant,  he 
crossed  the  boulevard  and  selected  one  from  the  moving 


104  CAVIARE 

stream.    Its  presence  could  not  have  been  premedi- 
tated. 

Mr.  Gorham's  last  words  as  he  went  into  the  Meurice 
were:  "Oh,' yes,  I  promise  to  take  care  of  myself." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.   GORHAM 

CHARLES  did  not  feel  that  he  had  any  great 
cause  for  disquiet  or  dissatisfaction.  True,  Mr. 
Gorham  did  not  entirely  smile  on  his  suit,  but 
all  the  same  he  seemed  not  unwilling,  under  certain  con- 
ditions and  in  certain  circumstances,  to  help  it  forward. 
The  worst  feature  was  the  necessity  under  which  he  now 
was  of  saying  no  word  to  Alison  herself.  But  did  that  so 
very  greatly  matter?  Surely  she  knew  already  all  there 
was  to  know.  .  .  .  And  although  he  was  himself  de- 
barred from  explaining  to  her  why  he  was  leaving  Paris 
and  going  so  incontinently  to  America,  yet  surely  the 
odds  were  that  Mr.  Gorham  would  intentionally  or  un- 
intentionally let  it  out,  if  not  in  so  many  words,  at  least 
in  such  a  way  that  she  would  understand. 

And  so,  after  his  dinner  with  Mr.  Gorham,  Charles 
went  happily  to  bed. 

With  his  coffee  in  the  morning  he  bade  the  waiter 
bring  him  the  "folders"  of  the  various  transatlantic 
steamship  lines.  If  he  was  to  go  he  had  better  arrange  to 
go  at  once.  The  sooner  the  better.  Perhaps  there  was  a 
boat  to-morrow.  But  it  was  already  the  Tuesday  of  the 
week,  and  there  was  no  good  boat  that  he  could  catch 
till  the  Wednesday  of  its  successor.  If  he  cut  his  dinner 
to-night  he  could  make  the  Olympic  by  a  little  hustling, 
but  he  was  n't  going  to  cut  his  dinner  for  all  the  White 


io6  CAVIARE 

Star  boats  in  the  world.  It  might  give  Mr.  Gorham  a 
good  opinion  of  his  seriousness,  but  that  advantage 
would  have  been  bought  at  too  high  a  price.  Now  Charles 
knew  little  more  than  the  reputations  of  the  various 
lines  and  the  names  of  the  crack  boats.  Save  for  a  healthy- 
prejudice  against  the  German  lines,  he  did  n't  care  what 
he  sailed  in  as  long  as  he  crossed  the  ocean  in  the  mini- 
mum of  time.  So  many  more  days  would  he  have  in 
which  to  make  good  in  America.  The  sooner  he  was  there 
the  more  quickly  would  he  be  back.  The  Mauretania 
was  obviously  the  boat  for  him  to  take,  and,  getting  up, 
Charles  strolled  round  to  the  Rue  Scribe  to  see  about  a 
berth.  He  could  afford  to  stroll;  had  he  not  a  whole  week 
on  his  hands? 

But  had  he?  True,  it  was  eight  days  and  an  hour  be- 
fore he  need  be  at  Euston  to  catch  the  boat  special,  but 
there  were  things  to  do  in  that  week,  and  in  any  case  he 
could  n't  pass  the  time  in  Paris.  He  felt  that  Mr.  Gor- 
ham would  n't  swallow  any  excuse  for  hanging  about 
that  was  based  on  the  fact  that  the  steamers  did  n't  fit. 
No,  he  'd  have  to  go  away  from  Paris,  and  he  did  n't 
exactly  want  to  go  back  to  his  friends  in  England.  And 
why  should  he?  In  the  first  place,  there  would  be  the 
necessity  for  all  sorts  of  awkward  explanations.  His 
brothers  would  be  annoyed  at  the  idea  of  his  seeking  his 
fortune  in  New  York.  Nor  had  he  any  important  disposi- 
tions to  make  in  England.  There  were,  in  spite  of  Mr. 
Gorham's  admonitions,  no  clothes  to  buy.  Oh!  that  re- 
minded him:  Bowles  must  be  retrieved,  and  so  must  the 
luggage.  And  then  Bowles  must  be  dismissed.  If  he 
were  going  to  New  York  to  seek  a  fortune  it  would  be 


STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.  GORHAM  107 

just  as  well  to  go  without  the  handicap  of  a  valet.  Mr, 
Gorham  should  know  of  that  concession  to  seriousness. 
And  the  baggage?  Bowles  could  n't  get  it  because  his 
master  had  the  ticket.  What  should  he  do?  Should  he 
telegraph  money  to  Bowles  and  telegraph  at  the  same 
time  for  the  baggage,  or  should  he.  .  .  ?  Yes,  he  would 
—  that  was  the  thing  to  do.  He  had  a  return  ticket  to 
Monte  Carlo,  and  he'd  better  use  it.  After  all,  it  was 
only  a  night's  journey.  He  could  go  down  through  the 
next  night,  collect  his  belongings,  settle  up  one  or  two 
small  outstanding  affairs,  say  good-bye  to  one  or  two 
sympathetic  friends,  and  be  back  in  London  in  three 
days.  It  was  an  easy  matter  getting  a  place  in  the 
wagon-lit. 

Mr.  Gorham  had  mentioned  neither  time  nor  place 
for  this  last,  this  almost  farewell,  dinner;  so  Charles 
turned  up  at  the  Meurice  at  eight  o'clock.  His  host  was 
not  in,  the  porter  thought;  indeed,  he  was  sure  he  had  n't 
come  in.  But  Miss  Gorham  was  upstairs.  Would  Charles 
wait  in  the  drawing-room  while  his  name  was  being  an- 
nounced ?  He  thought  it  odd,  but  he  sank  into  a  chair  and 
began  to  read  "  Comoedia,"  or  to  pretend  to  read  it.  .  .  . 
But  what  could  Mr.  Gorham  be  doing  out  of  the  hotel  so 
late?  Why,  it  was  dark  —  and  he'd  said  he  would  n't 
go  out  after  dark!  Still,  it  was  unlikely  that  anything 
had  happened.  The  porter  at  least  had  shown  no 
distress. 

Charles  sat  on.  It  was  not  till  a  quarter  past  eight 
that  any  fresh  notice  was  taken  of  him,  and  then  it  was 
a  page  who  came  with  the  request  that  he  would  go  up- 
stairs. Why?  Charles  had  not  been  so  honoured  before. 


io8  CAVIARE 

However,  he  followed  the  page,  and  found  himself  alone 
in  one  of  the  private  sitting-rooms  of  the  hotel.  And  then 
more  delay.  It  was  all  very  strange.  He  fancied  he  could 
hear  movements  on  the  other  side  of  the  door,  but  it 
was  n't  for  him  to  listen.  Perhaps  Mr.  Gorham  had  come 
in  and  was  hurrying  his  dressing.  And  when  at  last  the 
door  opened  it  was  Alison  who  appeared  —  a  white- 
faced  Alison.  Charles  just  had  time  to  ask  himself 
whether  this  was  because  she  had  been  ill?  And  yet 
Mr,  Gorham  had  said  there  was  n't  "anything  really" 
the  matter  with  her.  But  he  had  no  time  for  further 
conjecture. 

"  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  've  asked  you  to  come  up  here  be- 
cause Papa's  disappeared.  I  mean,  he  went  out  and  he 
has  n't  come  back  — " 

"But,  Miss  Gorham,  he'll  be  back  directly,  surely.  I 
expect  he  's  only  delayed  — " 

"No,  he's  sent  me  a  letter.  I  'd  have  shown  it  to  you 
anyhow.  You  've  been  such  a  friend  these  last  few  days  " 
■ —  and  Alison  smiled  through  what  looked  suspiciously 
like  unshed  tears.  "He  asks  that  I  should  give  it  you. 
First  let  me  tell  you,  though,  that  directly  I  got  it  I 
thought  of  telephoning  to  you.  I  did  n't  know  anyone 
else  who'd  be  more  likely  to  be  able  to  help.  Besides, 
you  were  there  the  other  night.  But,  do  you  know,  I 
had  n't  any  idea  where  you  were  stopping.  Here 's  the 
letter,  though;  read  it." 

My  darling  Alison,  —  I  don't  want  you  to  worry 
because  I  'm  not  coming  back  to-night.  Nothing  bad  's 
going  to  happen  to  me.   You  know  what  happened  the 


STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.  GORHAM  109 

other  night  —  well,  this  time  they  've  got  me.  No,  it 
is  n't  any  French  Apaches.  I  don't  want  ransoming. 
I  '11  be  let  out  all  right  in  a  few  days.  I  want  you  directly 
you  get  this  to  send  for  Mr.  Caerleon.  He  '11  explain. 
And  don't  give  it  out  that  I  've  disappeared,  and  don't, 
above  all,  tell  the  police.  My  best  love,  daughter.  Keep 
cheerful. 

Cyrus  Gorham. 

P.S.  —  You  'd  better  send  up  to  the  Astoria  and  ask 
Mrs.  Phillips  if  she  won't  move  down  to  the  Meurice, 
and  let  her  have  my  room  till  I  get  back.  Tell  her  she  '11 
be  doing  me  a  real  kindness  if  she  will.  But  ask  her  not 
to  say  a  word. 

Charles  finished  reading.  It  was  not  so  obscure.  He 
thought  he  understood.  For  a  moment  he  paused  to 
think.  It  was  clear  that  "Old  Man  Pyle  "  had  got  Mr. 
Gorham,  but  what  was  n't  clear  was  how  it  was  that 
Mr.  Gorham  had  allowed  himself  to  be  got.  He  asked 
Alison  to  tell  him  more. 

"All  I  know,  Mr.  Caerleon,  more  than  is  in  that  note, 
is  that  this  afternoon  about  four  o'clock,  a  few  minutes 
after  we'd  come  in  from  the  Bois,  the  room  telephone 
here  rang.  I  went  to  it.  It  was  the  office  wanting  to  speak 
to  Papa.  He  took  the  receiver.  Cook's  apparently  had 
telephoned  to  ask  whether  he  could  step  round  to  the 
Rue  dc  Rivoli  to  settle  some  question  that  had  arisen 
on  the  tickets  we'd  taken  this  morning  for  Egj^pt.  We 
are,  or  were,  going  there  in  a  week  or  two.  I  could  hear 
that  Papa  did  n't  want  to  step  round  —  he  'd  told  me 


no  CAVIARE 

he  had  n't  been  feeling  so  very  good,  and  that  he  did  n't 
want  to  go  out  nights,  —  but  apparently  Cook 's  would 
have  him,  because  they  had  to  write  to-day  to  Cairo. 
I  said  I  'd  go  with  him,  but  he  would  n't  let  me.  He  'd 
be  back  anyway  in  a  few  minutes.  I  was  to  order  tea. 
I  did.  And  then  I  waited.  After  twenty  minutes  this 
note  came." 

Alison  would  have  made  a  first-class  witness.  Charles 
felt  that  he  knew  all  she  had  to  tell  him,  and  indeed,  that 
with  her  explanation,  he  knew  more  than  she  knew  her- 
self. It  was  his  turn  now  to  explain.  First,  though,  he 
asked  if  Mrs.  Phillips  —  whoever  she  might  be  —  had 
joined  Alison? 

"Oh,  yes;  Constance  is  a  brick.  She  came  at  once. 
She's  in  there"  —  Alison  pointed  to  a  door  —  "unpack- 
ing. She's  going  to  stop  till  Papa  comes  back — oh, 
but,  Mr.  Caerleon,  what  does  it  all  mean?  When  will 
he  come  back?  Is  he  safe?"  She  was  perilously  near 
breaking  down. 

"Yes,  Miss  Gorham,  he  '11  come  back,  and  he  's quite 
safe,  I  should  say." 

"But  Mr.  Caerleon,  you  must  help  me  more  than 
that.  Papa  would  never  have  told  me  to  send  for  you 
unless  he  was  sure  you  could  really  cheer  me  up  some 
way.  Who  has  'got'  Papa?  What  does  he  mean?" 

"I  think  I  know.  Miss  Gorham,  and  I  think  I  know 
too  what  your  father  meant  by  saying  you  were  to  send 
at  once  for  me.  I  can't  help  much;  but  it  does  happen 
that  yesterday  and  the  day  before  he  told  me  a  lot  about 
his  affairs,  and  all  about  that  attempt  to  kidnap  him  in 
the  Rue  Lepic  on  Sunday  morning.  It  all  fits  in  — " 


STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.  GORHAM  iii 

"But,  Mr.  Caerleon,  is  he  in  any  danger?" 
"It  does  n't  look  as  if  he  thought  so;  now,  does  it  ?" 
For  one  unworthy  moment  Charles,  remembering  his 
first  meeting  with  Mr.  Gorham,  recalling  his  gallantry, 
and  recalling  too  his  own  failure  to  identify  any  factor 
of  danger  as  they  walked  back  from  Gerny's  a  couple  of 
nights  ago,  wondered  if  his  host's  disappearance  was 
quite  above-board.  "Don't,  above  all,  tell  the  police": 
that  looked  fishy !  But  no.  Charles  did  n't  think  Mr. 
Gorham  would  mix  cabbages  and  baskets.  He  would  n't 
frighten  his  daughter  in  so  serious  a  way  just  for  the 
sake  of  some  passing  amour.  Besides,  he  had  been  very 
explicit.  The  unworthy  moment  had  not  been  without 
advantage.  Charles  had  thought  things  out.  He  could 
continue  with  the  greater  confidence:  — 

"  Miss  Gorham,  I  '11  tell  you  all  I  know,  and  all  I  guess. 
I  won't  keep  anything  back.  And  I  need  n't  cut  it  short, 
because  if  we  're  not  to  tell  the  police  —  and  I  suppose  in 
that  matter  we  are  to  take  your  father's  instructions 
implicitly  —  we  've  got  several  hours  of  inaction  before 
us.  Cook's  might  be  able  to  tell  us  something,  but 
they  're  closed  now,  and  we  can't  make  any  inquiries  there 
till  the  morning.  What  a  pity  you  did  n't  know  where 
I'm  stopping!  It's  the  Chatham.  Now,  in  the  first 
place,  when  that  taxi  tried  that  game  the  other  night  it 
was  n't  an  affair  of  Apaches  at  all :  it  was  an  affair  of 
your  own  countrymen.  Mr.  Gorham  has  been  engaged 
in  some  big  Stock  Exchange  deal,  and  he  's  run  up  against 
all  sorts  of  rich  men  with  more  money  than  scruple. 
Apparently,  if  only  they  could  get  him  out  of  the  way, 
they  'd  planned  it  out  that  they  'd  be  able  to  beat  him 


112  CAVIARE 

at  the  game.  There  are  two  ways  of  getting  people  out 
of  the  way:  you  can  kill  'em"  —  Alison  gasped,  and 
Charles  held  up  a  deprecating  hand  —  "  or  you  can 
kidnap  'em.  Your  father's  chief  enemy  seems  to  have 
been  an  old  man  called  Pyle  — " 

"Why,  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  know  Mr.  Pyle  quite  well. 
He  's  not  old  —  not  so  old  as  Papa,  and  he 's  a  friend  of 
Papa's.  It  can't  be  him." 

"It  is,  though,  Miss  Gorham.  Do  you  ever  call  this 
friend  of  your  father's  'Old  Man  Pyle'?" 

"  Why,  yes,  they  do.  But  he 's  not  so  very  old,  all  the 
same.  He  's  often  been  to  see  us.  Besides,  he  's  church- 
warden at  the  church  we  go  to  — " 
i  "Miss  Gorham,  I  'm  telling  this  story.  I  can  only  tell 
it  the  way  I  see  it  after  what  your  father  told  me.  I  dare 
say  Mr.  Pyle  is  a  most  exemplary  citizen  on  Sundays 
and  when  Wall  Street  is  closed,  or  whatever  they  call  it, 
but  he 's  the  man  your  father 's  been  fighting  and  inter- 
fering with.  It 's  about  the  control  of  some  railway, 
and  we're  always  told  on  this  side"  —  Charles  was 
becoming  quite  American  in  his  speech  in  his  wish  to  be 
both  terse  and  quickly  convincing —  "that  your  busi- 
ness men  would  skin  their  own  brothers  for  the  sake  of 
a  turn  in  the  market." 

"Yes,  that 's  true,  Mr.  Caerleon.  I  know  that.  But 
Mr.  Pyle— " 

"Well,  Mr.  Pyle  wanted  your  father  out  of  the  way, 
and  it  was  Mr.  Pyle  who  tried  through  some  associate  of 
his  to  have  him  kidnapped  the  other  night.  Why,  your 
father  recognised  the  man.  It  was  the  man  I  knocked 
down,  and  who  afterwards  got  away.    He  got  away 


STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.  GORHAM  113 

because  your  father  helped  him.  He  told  me  so  himself 
the  next  day.  He  let  him  go  because  he  did  n't  want  the 
scandal  and  the  bother,  and  because  he  knew  the  man's 
family.  That  attempt  failed,  and  it  was  the  next  day 
(you  know  when  I  came  round  to  ask  after  you  on  Sun- 
day, and  your  father  and  I  went  out)  that  I  was  told  how 
the  land  lay.  I  begged  your  father  then  to  be  more  care- 
ful, and  he  promised  he  would.  I  remember  he  said  he  'd 
only  go  out  in  the  daylight,  and  that  then  they  would  n't 
be  able  to  dig  him  out  here.  That  was  why  I  came  to 
fetch  him  last  night.  Practically  he  promised  me  he  'd 
take  tremendous  care  of  himself.  Because,  either  he  was 
mad  or  romancing,  or  else  those  American  friends  of 
yours  were  really  and  truly  trying  to  get  hold  of  him. 
In  that  case,  they  were  n't  likely  to  be  satisfied  with  that 
one  attempt.  However,  I  did  n't  worry  so  very  much, 
because  Mr.  Gorham,  in  the  first  place,  as  I  've  said, 
promised  to  take  care,  and,  in  the  second,  he  said  that 
in  a  very  few  days  the  thing  would  have  worked  itself 
out.  I  understand  him  to  mean  that,  say  by  the  end  of  a 
week  or  two,  things  would  have  so  shaped  themselves 
that  'Old  Man  Pyle'  would  take  his  beating.  Perhaps 
you  have  'settling  days'  in  New  York?" 

"  I  think  I  can  understand  now,  Mr.  Caerleon.  I  don't 
know  what  I  should  have  done  if  you  'd  not  been  here. 
What  ought  we  to  do,  please?  You  're  sure  in  your  own 
mind  that  Papa  's  in  no  danger?  You  're  sure  we 
ought  n't  to  go  to  the  police?" 

"  Mr.  Gorham  is  in  no  danger,  if  what  he  told  me  is 
true  —  if,  I  mean,  he 's  right  in  what  he  believes;  and  we 
shan't  gain  anything,  I  think,  by  telling  the  police.  That 


114  CAVIARE 

note  's  in  your  father's  hand.  It  can't  all  have  been 
dictated,  forced  out  of  him,  or  else  he  would  n't  have 
been  allowed  to  tell  you  to  send  for  me.  He  does  n't 
want  the  police  interfering.  They  'd  mix  up  the  whole 
affair,  and  so  would  all  the  papers,  with  the  motor-car 
bandits.  And  I  doubt  whether  we  should  be  any  nearer 
getting  your  father  back  .  .  ." 

"But  is  n't  there  anything  we  can  do?" 

"Yes."  Charles,  as  I  have  said,  was  an  organiser;  also 
he  was  practical.  He  had  seen  that  these  hours  of 
anxiety  were  telling  on  Alison.  "Yes,  we  can  dine.  I 
dare  say  your  friend  —  Mrs.  Phillips  —  is  ready  for  her 
dinner.  I  am  for  mine.  Oh,  I  know  you  think  you  can't 
eat  —  but  you  can  try.  Your  father  '11  have  his  dinner 
wherever  he  may  be.  Now  please  do  what  I  tell  you. 
Telephone  down  and  say  that  the  dinner  ordered  for 
eight  o'clock  will  be  wanted  in  ten  minutes  —  no,  don't 
leave  the  telephone:  now  ask  for  the  porter.  Say  that 
about  six  o'clock  a  note  was  left  here  by  hand,  addressed 
to  you,  and  tell  him  to  send  up  whoever  actually  took  it 
in,  at  once.  By  the  way,  you  did  n't  show  me  the 
envelope." 

Neither  paper  nor  envelope  was  of  any  value  as  a 
clue.  They  were  of  the  kind  that  the  waiter  of  the  boule- 
vard cafe  brings  when  he 's  asked  for  writing  materials — ■ 
the  rottenest  envelope,  and  a  sheet  of  paper  all  cut  up 
into  little  squares  by  the  ruling.  Both  the  address  and 
the  note  itself  were  written  quite  normally,  evidently 
with  the  fountain  pen  Mr.  Gorham  habitually  carried. 

Facts  won't  lend  themselves  into  making  a  detective 
story,  a  romance  of  mysterious  crime,  out  of  this  vera- 


STRANGE  DISAPPEARANCE  OF  MR.  GORHAM  115 

cious  chronicle,  so  I  had  better  say  at  once  that  although 
Charles  rather  fancied  himself  as  an  investigator,  yet 
even  he,  when  a  knock  came  at  the  door  and  one  of 
the  under-porters  came  in,  failed  to  elicit  anything  of 
the  slightest  real  importance.  The  driver  of  a  horse 
cab  had  brought  the  note.  He  had  driven  up  in  the 
ordinary  way,  and  the  porter  thought  he  might  remem- 
ber him  again,  because  he'd  had  words  with  him  for 
coming  to  the  door  and  taking  up  the  space  with  an 
empty  cab  just  at  the  time  when  that  space  was  most 
wanted.  Yes,  he  had  said  something — that  no  answer 
was  wanted,  and  that  he'd  been  given  the  letter  by 
an  Englishman. 

"From  all  of  which  we  may  deduce,"  said  Charles, 
when  they  were  alone  again,  "just  one  fact  —  that  your 
father  is  n't  so  very  far  away.  You  said  the  note  arrived 
after  about  twenty  minutes.  Let 's  say  half  an  hour.  In 
that  half  hour  he  had  to  be  kidnapped  and  to  get  some- 
where sufficiently  private  to  write  that  letter.  They 
could  n't  have  made  him  write  it  in  a  cafe.  Then  it  had 
to  get  here  —  in  a  horse  cab.  No,  he 's  within  a  couple 
of  miles.  But  the  ten  minutes  is  up :  what  about  dinner?  " 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  you're  like  Papa.  He  won't  do 
without  his  dinner  either.  But  I  must  call  Mrs.  Phillips. 
She  knows  that  Papa's  disappeared;  she's  seen  that 
note.  But  we  won't  tell  her  any  more.  She's  so  nice 
that  she  won't  even  try  to  find  out." 

Charles  was  all  the  better  pleased.  A  secret,  so  many 
secrets,  brought  him  closer  to  Alison.  It  was  almost  a 
family  intimacy. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A   BEATING   OF   THE   AIR 

HIS  friends  would  hardly  have  said  that  Charles 
was  a  person  of  sanguine  temperament,  but 
all  the  same  he  was  not  in  the  habit  of  borrow- 
ing trouble,  of  crossing  bridges  before  he  came  to  them, 
of  counting  sad  chickens  before  they  were  hatched,  of 
looking  on  the  dark  side  of  things.  What 's  the  use?  he  'd 
have  asked  if  he  'd  been  of  Miss  Gorham  's  nationality. 
True,  they  —  he  thought  of  himself  as  one  of  the  family 
now !  —  had  enough  to  worry  about.  The  kidnapping  of 
heads  of  families  was  not  a  matter  of  everyday  occur- 
rence. Mr.  Gorham  was  gone,  and  Heaven  alone  knew 
whether,  or  when,  he'd  return.  Charles  had  said  cheer- 
fully that  he  was  convinced  that  there  was  no  danger, 
but  was  n't  there  always  danger  when  unscrupulous 
men  found  themselves  in  a  hole.f^  Supposing  things  so 
shaped  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  to  be  jettisoned.  Better 
dead  than  alive,  his  captors  might  say. 

So  thought  Charles  to  himself  as  he  went  down  to 
dinner  in  the  wake  of  Alison  and  her  Mrs.  Phillips  — 
such  a  pleasant  type  of  American  woman,  with  that 
charming  urbanity,  that  cheerful,  unpushing  alertness 
that  Philadelphia,  city  of  homes,  seems  to  breed.  She 
not  only  reminded  one  of  Rittenhouse  Square:  she  was 
the  Square.  Charles  knew  he'd  get  on  with  her  at  once. 
If  all  Alison's  friends  are  like  this  one,  he  said  to  himself. 


A   BEATING  OF  THE   AIR  117 

I  '11  want  some  of  them  to  stop  with  us  all  the  time.  She 
had  come  in  when  Alison  had  summoned  her,  and  Charles 
had  been  "presented,"  and  had,  of  course,  forgotten  to 
follow  the  proper  American  formula  —  "pleased  to  meet 
you,  Mrs.  Philhps"  —  and  Mrs.  Phillips  had  thought  no 
worse  of  him  on  that  account,  but  had  smiled  with  sym- 
pathy, and  had  had  the  sense  —  oh,  if  such  sense  were 
more  common  here  in  the  country  where  I  write  this!  — 
to  avoid  any  mention  of  their  immediate  preoccupation. 

Still,  Mr.  Gorham's  disappearance  could  not  be  ig- 
nored. Naturally,  it  hung  like  a  blight  over  a  party  that 
might  otherwise  have  been  entirely  festive.  Charles 
certainly  was  as  festive  as  he  dared.  And  Miss  Gorham 
—  she  had  braced  herself  up,  and  was  a  hostess  who  was 
determined  to  carry  things  off.  She  pleased  Charles  by 
choosing  the  wine  herself.  "I  know  you'd  rather  drink 
claret,  Mr.  Caerleon,"  and  she  ordered  a  Haut  Brion 
which  was  even  too  good  for  the  occasion  —  unless 
"Papa's"  disappearance  was  to  form  the  criterion  of 
importance;  and  for  herself  and  Mrs.  Phillips  a  1904 
champagne  just  sufficiently  out  of  the  ruck  to  convince 
Charles  that  when  he  was  away  she  would  n't  drink  the 
contents  of  his  cellar  as  if  it  were  ginger-beer. 

"Papa  told  me,  Mr.  Caerleon,  that  you  were  going 
away  to-morrow,  and  that  he'd  said  we'd  show  our 
proper  sense  of  all  we  owe  you  by  coming  to  see  you  off. 
Perhaps  it'll  be  spoiling  you;  but,  as  he  said  that,  Mrs. 
Phillips  and  I  will  do  the  best  we  can.  We'll  come  — 
won't  we,  Constance." 

Constance  answered  "Sure"  almost  before  Charles 
could  interpose :  — 


ii8  CAVIARE 

"But  I'm  not  going  now.  Miss  Gorham;  I  shall  stop 
here  and  see  what  happens,  and  see  if  I  can  be  of  any 
kind  of  use  to  you.  You'll  let  me,  please.  Besides,  I 
was  n't  really  leaving  till  next  week.  Then  I'm  going  — 
or  was  going  —  to  America.  But  to-morrow  I  was  only 
intending  to  run  down  to  the  Riviera  to  get  my  baggage 
and  to  find  my  man  and  to  do  a  little  business.  You  see, 
Paris  is  a  little  dull  just  now,"  —  he  had  begun  to  floun- 
der, poor  young  man,  —  "and  anyhow  I  have  a  return 
ticket  that'll  be  wasted  if  I  don't  use  it." 

"But  of  course  you'll  use  it,  Mr.  Caerleon;  you  must 
n't  waste  a  return  ticket!"  Alison  did  n't  want  him  to 
use  it;  she'd  be  seriously  offended  if  he  did,  or  hurt  per- 
haps —  but  she  had  been  nettled  by  his  "Paris  is  a  little 
dull."  "Of  course  you'll  use  it.  We  can  get  on  alone. 
You  said  yourself  that  what  Papa  had  written  was  all 
right.  We  can  just  wait  —  can't  we,  Constance?  We'll 
see  Mr.  Caerleon  off,  —  if  he's  not  going  by  some  nine 
o'clock  train,  —  and  then  we'll  enjoy  ourselves  and 
spend  Papa's  money  and  do  all  the  things  he  hates  me 
to  do  because  he  thinks  'em  dull.  I  want  to  spend  days 
in  the  Cluny,  for  instance." 

"You  shall  spend  days  in  the  Cluny,  Miss  Gorham: 
I'll  go  with  you,  if  you  '11  let  me.  I  know  it  quite  well; 
I  was  there  yesterday.  For  you  can  be  sure  I  shan't  go 
away  till  Mr.  Gorham 's  back  and  safe  and  sound.  You 
may  not  want  me,  but '  I  'm  there  if  I  'm  wanted,'  as  the 
music-hall  song  says.  And  as  for  spending  Mr.  Gor- 
ham's  money,"  —  Charles  spoke  with  his  lips  curving 
to  a  smile,  but  his  eyes  were  serious,  —  "don't  forget 
that  what  he 's  in  is  a  financial  deal,  that  this  kidnapping 


A  BEATING   OF   THE   AIR  119 

is  only  the  small  end  of  it,  its  least  important  side. 
Your  friend  Mr.  Pyle,  if  I  understood  your  father  aright, 
will,  now  that  he 's  got  him,  proceed  to  take  all  his  money 
away  from  him.  I  should  go  slow  on  the  spending  — 
and  keep  enough  to  carry  you  back  to  America." 

But  Alison  was  still  a  little  sore.  "  I  can't  mal-e  you 
go,  Mr.  Caerleon,  and  anyhow  I  'm  very  grateful  to  you 
—  but  I  don't  want  you  to  alter  your  plans  for  me,  for 
us.  As  for  the  money,  I  dare  say  there'll  be  enough  to 
take  us  round  some,  and  yet  to  carry  us  back  to  Phila- 
delphia." She  did  n't  propose  to  stand  for  Charles's 
half-serious  joke.  "And  now,  Mr.  Caerleon,  I'm  going 
to  send  you  away.  You  were  n't  leaving  Paris  anyhow 
till  to-morrow  evening,  you  say.  Well,  we  '11  see  you  again 
before  then."  She  relented  a  little.  "Besides,  we  are  to 
see  you  off  —  but  apart  from  that,  perhaps  after  all 
you'd  just  come  round  here  and  —  and  cheer  us  up  a 
little  at  about  eleven  in  the  morning.  Come  along, 
Constance;  good-night  again,  Mr.  Caerleon."  And  she 
was  gone,  leaving  Charles  in  almost  open-mouthed  ad- 
miration of  the  self-control  of  young  American  woman- 
hood. It  was  useless  to  fret,  and  so  Alison  was  not 
fretting. 

Charles  could  not  know  that  long  after  the  streets 
were  quiet,  long  after  he  himself  was  asleep,  Alison's 
eyes  were  still  unclosed,  that  her  pillow  was  wet  with 
anxious  tears. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  AT  LAST  LEAVES  PARIS 

IT  is  unpleasant  to  be  called  before  the  hour  one  has 
anticipated.  Having  been  told  to  come  to  the 
Meurice  at  eleven  o'clock,  Charles,  knowing  that 
whatever  happened  he  would  have  no  easy  day  before 
him,  had  ordered  his  coffee  for  nine  o'clock.  But  at  ex- 
actly fourteen  minutes  after  eight  there  came  a  rap  on 
his  door.  He  woke  reluctantly  —  and  paid,  I  may  inci- 
dentally mention,  for  the  outrage  on  his  peace  by  having 
a  headache  until  lunch-time.  Nowadays  the  young  man 
of  thirty-three  is  a  tender  plant.  The  chasseur  had  come 
to  say  that  he  was  wanted  on  the  telephone. 

"Mr.  Caerleon  —  Mr.  Caerleon  —  Mr.  Caer  —  Ah, 
I  am  so  glad  you've  come.  I  want  to  see  you  at  once. 
No;  not  at  once;  I  'm  not  up  yet,  but  in  half  an  hour,  — 
no,  in  forty  minutes.  I  've  got  a  letter  from  Papa.  He 
has  a  message  for  you.  I  '11  tell  you  when  you  come.  .  .  . 
No,  perhaps  you'd  better  not  come  till  half -past  nine. 
We'll  both  be  ready  then.  What?  What's  that  you  say? 
How  did  it  come?  By  post.  The  postmark?  Wait  a 
moment.  It's  Bercy.  Please  hurry  —  I  mean,  come 
punctually  at  half-past  nine.   Good-bye." 

This  affair,  said  Charles  to  himself,  was  evidently  going 
to  keep  him  on  the  jump.  And  yet,  somehow,  he  could  n't 
just  then  take  it  with  any  great,  any  dramatic  serious- 
ness. It  was  American.  And  America  was  so  far  off.  Mr. 


CHARLES   AT    LAST   LEAVES   PARIS         121 

Gorham  himself  had  n't,  it  had  been  perfectly  evident, 
thought  so  very  much  of  the  moral  obliquity  of  "Old 
Man  Pyle"  and  his  gang.  He  seemed  to  take  the  risk  of 
being  kidnapped  as  all  in  the  day's  work.  And  yet  that 
was  absurd.  It  simply  meant  that  Mr.  Gorham  had 
nerve.  And  then  no  doubt  he  had  never  expected  that 
he  would  have  been  caught  asleep.  Some  day,  perhaps, 
he  'd  explain  to  Charles  exactly  how  it  did  happen. 

Charles  dressed,  and  dressing  drank  that  bad  coffee 
that  the  very  occasional  visitor  to  Paris  is  so  ready  to 
praise,  and  having  dressed  was  shaved  and  decorated 
with  a  carnation.  Now  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  Cook's 
would  be  open.  His  eyeglass,  his  politeness,  never  cer- 
tain except  with  his  social  inferiors,  won  him  immediate 
attention.  Could  they  tell  him  —  he  came  from  Miss 
Gorham,  of  course  —  why  they  'd  telephoned  to  Mr. 
Gorham  at  the  Meurice  on  the  previous  afternoon? 
What  had  been  the  matter  with  the  Egyptian  tickets? 
Much  running  about;  much  consultation.  At  last  is 
produced  the  very  man  who  had  sold  Mr.  Gorham  the 
tickets.  He  did  n't  understand.  There  was  nothing  the 
matter  with  the  tickets,  surely?  They  had  n't  suggested 
that  there  was.  And  no  one  had  telephoned  to  Mr.  Gor- 
ham. The  whole  thing  was  rather  a  mystery.  Charles 
could  discover  no  light  .  .  .  and  yet,  when  he  went  over 
the  ground  once  more  with  the  assistant,  he  did  learn 
something  which  might  easily  prove  of  importance.  Mr. 
Gorham  had  taken  time,  having  his  route  and  the  condi- 
tions explained  to  him.  After  he  had  gone  —  directly 
after  —  a  man  who  had  waited  at  the  counter  not  far 
from  him  had  said  that  he  too  wanted  to  go  away  and 


122  CAVIARE 

that  he  was  uncertain  as  to  where  he  should  go,  but  that 
it  had  seemed  to  him  that  the  tour  chosen  by  the  last 
gentleman  might  suit  him.  So  the  assistant  went  over  it 
with  him,  wondering  the  while,  he  now  remembered, 
how  he  could  have  such  good  ears  that  some  yards  off, 
where  he  had  stood,  he  had  heard  the  particulars  of  Mr. 
Gorham's  projected  journey.  The  assistant  agreed  now 
that  he  had  n't,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  done  other  than  say 
"the  same  tour."  Anyhow,  he'd  ordered  the  same  tour, 
and  had  asked  that  the  tickets  should  be  prepared  for 
him.  He  was  coming  in  that  morning  at  eleven  to  get 
them.  Had  n't  he  left  any  name  or  address?  Yes,  he 
had.  It  was  Costigan  —  and  he  was  stopping  at  the 
Westminster. 

It  was  already  the  hour  that  Miss  Gorham  had  ap- 
pointed, but  Charles  took  the  time  to  drive  round  to  the 
Westminster.  "Is  Mr.  So-and-So  in?"  he  asked,  nam- 
ing a  friend  of  his  who,  when  in  Paris,  usually  stopped 
there.  He  was  n't  —  as  Charles  well  knew.  And  then, 
as  he  turned  away,  as  if  by  an  afterthought:  "Have  you 
a  Mr.  Costigan  in  the  hotel?" 

The  porter  thought  not,  and  an  examination  of  the 
register  confirmed  his  doubt. 

Really,  as  a  detective  Charles  began  to  think  no  small 
beer  of  himself.  He  was  right,  then:  the  summons  to 
Cook's  was  all  in  my  eye  —  the  telephone  call  had  come 
from  one  of  the  kidnappers;  and  as  for  this  Costigan,  he 
evidently  had  gone  through  his  little  act  with  the 
tickets  in  order  to  know  exactly  where  Mr.  Gorham  was 
going  next  —  in  the  unlikely  event  of  his  leaving  Paris 
before  they  could  get  hold  of  him.  The  whole  affair  was 


CHARLES  AT  LAST  LEAVES  PARIS    123 

dead  easy.  As  a  reward  for  his  own  intelligence  he 
stopped  the  taxi  and  chose  for  Alison  a  large  bunch  of 
the  most  beautiful  white  carnations  he  could  find.  More 
delay  —  but  the  flowers  were  worth  it. 

Miss  Gorham  showed  no  signs  of  distress.  Her  bath 
and  a  resolve  to  take  things  calmly  now  that  another 
day  was  here  had  cleared  away  any  result  of  her  last 
night's  miseries.  But  in  spite  of  the  flowers  she  was  a 
little  angry  at  having  been  kept  waiting  ten  minutes. 
Charles  had  to  explain  what  he  had  been  doing,  that  he 
could  not  go  to  Cook's  till  they  were  open,  and  that  it 
then  seemed  best  to  follow  up  the  Costigan  clue.  Miss 
Gorham  grudgingly  agreed. 

"But,  Mr.  Caerleon,  is  there  nothing  we  can  do? 
Have  we  just  to  sit  here  and  wait?  And  what '11  happen 
to  Papa's  business  in  the  mean  time?" 

Charles  was  ashamed  to  remember  that  he  had  n't 
kept  the  business  aspect  of  the  matter  in  his  mind.  How- 
ever, .  .  .  and  he  recalled  something  else.  "You  were 
going  to  show  me  the  letter  you  got  this  morning." 

"Stupid  of  me  —  I  should  have  shown  it  you  at  once. 
There  —  you  see,  it 's  on  exactly  the  same  paper  as  last 
night's.  Read  it.  Papa  says  you're  to  go  away,  Mr. 
Caerleon"  —  this  last  with  some  malice,  and  with  some 
regret,  Charles  thought  and  hoped. 

My  darling  Alison,  —  I  hope  you  got  my  letter 
last  night,  and  that  you  were  n't  very  anxious  about  me. 
You  need  n't  be.  I  am  perfectly  well  and  perfectly  safe, 
I'm  being  kept  away  from  the  cable  — that 'sail.  I  can't 
explain  now,  but  it's  business:  there  isn't  any  danger 


124  CAVIARE 

unless  the  police  get  busy.  Then  anything  might  happen. 
I  think  you  '11  see  me  again  in  sixteen  days.  Tell  Caer- 
leon  not  to  stop  in  Paris  on  my  account.  Indeed,  you 
can  show  him  this  letter.  I'm  particularly  anxious  he 
should  n't  alter  any  of  his  plans.  I  shall  be  very  disap- 
pointed if  he  does.  I  hope  Mrs.  Phillips  is  with  you.  I 
shan't  be  able  to  write  again.  Good-bye,  daughter. 

Cyrus  K.  Gorham. 

P.S.  —  About  Mr.  Caerleon.  I  'm  not  allowed  to 
write  to  him,  but  I  want  you  to  say  to  him  that  I  'm  very 
serious  about  his  going  away.  He'll  think  perhaps  he 
ought  to  stop,  but  I  'm  all  right,  and  there  is  no  reason 
for  his  stopping  on  my  account.  I  hold  him  to  his  prom- 
ise, tell  him;  he'll  understand. 

"There  is  n't  a  word  about  business  in  the  letter,  Mr. 
Caerleon,  and  he  does  n't  say  what  I'm  to  do  with  his 
letters  and  cables.  There 's  a  mail  in  from  America  this 
morning  and  two  cables  for  him  too  —  one  last  night  and 
one  this  morning.  What  am  I  to  do  about  them.?  Why 
did  n't  he  say  in  his  letter  whether  I  was  to  open  them?  " 

"  Your  father,  Miss  Gorham,  has  been  kidnapped  just 
in  order  that  he  should  n't  attend  to  his  cables.  He 
tells  you  that.  They  would  n't  have  been  stupid  enough 
to  let  him  send  instructions  about  them."  Charles  felt 
inclined  to  add  a  "  See,  silly?  "  to  his  sentence;  but,  in  the 
first  place,  he  did  not  know  Alison  well  enough,  and,  in 
the  second,  he  remembered  that  he  had  n't  explained 
with  any  clearness  about  Mr.  Gorham's  Stock  Exchange 
deal.   Alison  could  n't  know  that  he  was  managing  his 


CHARLES  AT  LAST  LEAVES  PARIS    125 

affairs  by  cable  or  understand  by  inspiration  all  the 
implications  of  the  kidnapping. 

"Don't  you  open  your  father's  telegrams  when  he's 
away.  Miss  Gorham?"  Charles  went  on. 

"  No,  never.  He  lets  no  one  open  them  —  not  even  his 
secretary  when  he's  in  New  York;  and  when  his  tele- 
phone rings  there  —  the  telephone  in  his  own  room,  I 
mean :  it 's  got  a  private  number  —  no  one  is  allowed  to 
answer  it.  So  I  dare  n't  open  his  cables  now  —  unless 
you  think  I  ought." 

"  I  don't.  Miss  Gorham.  Your  father  evidently  is  as 
secretive  as  an  oyster  and  as  reticent  as  a  cuttlefish,  and 
we  may  as  well  respect  his  peculiarities.  Besides,  it 
would  n't  do  any  good  to  open  them.  He  told  me  he 
got  these  cables  and  then  replied  with  instructions.  We 
can't  invent  instructions.  We  have  n't  the  slightest  idea 
what  he  wants.  My  own  idea  is  that,  even  if  we  knew  — 
perhaps  you  do  —  who  his  agent  is,  it  would  be  a  mis- 
take to  cable  to  him.  If  he  gets  no  replies  he  may  at 
least  believe  that  your  father  's  satisfied  with  the  posi- 
tion, and  leave  it  at  that.  Perhaps  that'll  exactly  suit 
your  father 's  book  —  anyway,  it 's  an  even  chance  to 
begin  with.  Whereas  if  we  cable  that  he's  gone  away 
and  left  no  address,  or  that  he's  been  kidnapped,  or  that 
he's  too  ill  to  attend  to  business,  there's  no  certainty 
that  the  fact  would  n't  get  out,  and  that  might  damage 
his  interests  more  even  than  anything  his  enemies  may 
do.  As  things  stand,  his  agent  won't  do  anything  at  all. 
I  know  that,  because  Mr.  Gorham  told  me  that  if  he 
cabled  no  instructions  no  steps  were  taken.  We  must 
just  do  nothing  and  trust  to  luck." 


126  CAVIARE 

"  But,  Mr.  Caerleon,  it 's  all  so  dreadful.  Of  course, 
getting  this  letter  this  morning  has  cheered  me  a  little, 
but  I  am  frightened"  —  there  was  a  tremulous  note  in 
Alison's  voice,  and  Charles  would  have  taken  her  hand 
if  his  promise  to  Mr.  Gorham  was  not  so  clearly  in  his 
mind.   He  wondered  if  she  knew. 

"One  thing,  though,  Mr.  Caerleon,  is  clear:  you  must 
carry  out  your  own  plans."  Then  Alison  smiled,  a  little 
twisted  smile.  "Of  course,  I  must  n't  order  you  about. 
Neither  I  nor  Papa  can  prevent  your  stopping  in  Paris 
if  you  want  to.  What  I  meant  was  that  I  must  n't  let 
you  stop  in  Paris  for  my  sake.  No,  please  don't  argue. 
Besides,  I  can  prove  to  you  you  ought  to  go.  The  nat- 
ural thing  last  night  when  you  came  round  was  for  us  to 
have  gone  at  once  to  the  police  and  to  have  put  the  whole 
thing  in  their  hands.  Why  did  n't  we?  Because  Papa 
told  me  not  to.  It  did  n't  sound  sensible  advice,  but  we 
took  it  —  and  we  believed  him,  too,  when  he  said  he  was 
in  no  danger.  Well,  we've  got  —  you've  got  —  to  do 
what  he  tells  you  in  this,  too.  I  don't  know  why  he 
does  n't  want  you  to  stop,  but  he  evidently  does  n't;  he 
evidently  is  more  than  ordinarily  anxious  for  you  to  go." 

Charles,  of  course,  did  know  —  but  he  could  n't  tell 
Miss  Gorham  without  breaking  his  word.  He  com- 
muned with  himself  awhile.  If  he  went  to  the  South  that 
evening,  according  to  his  first  programme,  then  in  that 
case  he  had  better  go  the  whole  hog  and,  deferring  still 
further  to  Mr.  Gorham's  wishes,  not  see  Alison  again 
for  the  stipulated  twelve  months.  After  all,  to  see  her 
thus,  to  see  her  and  never  to  be  able  to  give  either  his 
eyes  or  his  tongue  liberty,  was  a  sad  joy.   Apparently 


CHARLES  AT  LAST  LEAVES  PARIS    127 

he  was  to  treat  this  kidnapping  affair  as  of  no  dramatic, 
of  no  vital  importance.  Mr.  Gorham  had  been  kid- 
napped, and  was  to  be  kept  in  durance  for  a  fortnight  or 
so.  Well,  so  much  the  worse  for  Mr.  Gorham.  It  seems 
it  was  to  be  treated  as  a  Wall  Street  incident.  He  would 
come  out  shorn.  Charles  certainly  could  n't  help  him 
now.  And  could  he  be  of  any  great  service  to  his  daugh- 
ter? He  doubted  it.  She  had  Mrs.  Phillips  and  her 
maid,  and  she  had  her  own  courage  and  her  own  high 
spirit  and  her  own  declared  intention  not  to  be  dull. 
And  then  he  must  remember  that  he  was  n't  an  accepted 
or  even  a  declared  suitor  of  Alison's.  Mr.  Gorham 
might  naturally  have  in  mind  the  fact  that  he  was  only 
a  recent  acquaintance,  met  by  hazard.  He  might  well 
have  some  anxiety  about  leaving  his  daughter,  even  with 
a  chaperon,  in  the  society  of  a  young  man  of  whom  in 
effect  he  knew  no  more  than  could  be  gleaned  from  the 
arid  reticence  of  Debrett's  pages.  ..." 

"Yes,  Miss  Gorham,  perhaps  you're  right.  I  don't 
know.  But  I  '11  go.  I  was  going  to-night  in  the  luxe  after 
an  early  dinner." 

"And  Constance  and  I  will  come  and  dine  with  you 
and  see  you  off.  That  was  a  promise.  A  Gorham  never 
breaks  a  promise,  however  inconvenient.  And  now,  Mr. 
Caerleon,  Constance  is  waiting  for  me.  We ' ve  to  go  and 
be  fitted  at  Callot's.  We  '11  drive  you  as  far  as  your  hotel, 
or  the  Place  de  I'Opera,  if  you  are  going  that  way." 

Anglo-Saxon  reticence  and  self-possession  are  indeed 
qualities  beyond  price.  At  dinner  that  evening  Mr. 
Gorham's  name  was  mentioned,  it  is  true,  but  his  dis- 


128  CAVIARE 

appearance  was  not.  The  fact  that  he  had  been  looking 
forward  to  plovers'  eggs  came  up,  and  that  he  was 
angry  that  Mr.  Sargent  would  n't  paint  Alison;  but  no 
one  on  hearing  the  conversation  would  have  thought 
that  these  two  beautifully  dressed  women,  this  smart 
man,  were  figures  in  a  melodrama.  I  don't  think  the 
abstinence  was  intentional;  it  was  n't  planned.  The 
truth  is,  that  while  they  talked  of  Mr.  Sargent  and 
Zuloaga,  of  "L'Assaut"  and  Mistinguett,  they  were  all 
thinking  of  Mr.  Gorham,  wondering  .  .  .  full  of  anxiety : 
but  Alison  could  not  trust  herself  to  speak  of  her  father 
—  she  did  n't  want  to  break  down;  Mrs.  Phillips  was  so 
much  the  soul  of  discretion  that,  knowing  there  was  more 
in  the  wind  than  Mr.  Gorham's  disappearance  accounted 
for,  she  felt  that  the  better  part  was  to  talk  of  anything 
and  everything  rather  than  what  was  really  important : 
and  as  for  Charles  —  Charles  knew  that  he  was  going 
away :  he  had  arranged  that  he  should  sit  opposite  Ali- 
son, and  he  looked  at  her  and  he  talked,  and  he  looked 
at  her  and  he  ate,  and  he  looked  at  her  .  .  .  and  yet 
he  paid  more  attention  to  her  companion ! 

All  the  world  seemed  to  be  at  the  Gare  de  Lyon.  How 
often  had  Charles  caught  that  train !  How  often  had  he 
gone  with  happy  carelessness  to  his  berth !  To-night  was 
different.  Ordinarily  he  would  have  started  by  intrigu- 
ing for  an  empty  compartment.  To-night  he  told  the 
conductor  the  number  of  his  place,  saw  that  his  bag  was 
handed  in,  tipped  his  porter,  and  turned  to  talk  to  his 
companions.  Ordinarily,  too,  he  would  have  searched 
the  train  for  acquaintances,  or  to  see  if  his  fellow  pas- 


CHARLES  AT  LAST  LEAVES  PARIS    129 

sengers  were  amusing.  To-night  he  was  careless,  his  eyes 
were  searching  AUson's  face;  now  and  again  he  would 
look  at  the  clock.   Each  minute  was  precious. 

For  Alison  to  see  Charles  off  was  not  a  pleasure.  She 
began  now,  after  the  events  of  the  last  two  days,  to  feel 
that  she  depended  on  him.  She  would  have  said  that  she 
liked  him,  that  she  was  sorry  he  was  going  away.  .  .  . 
She  talked  to  him,  and  as  she  talked,  feeling  that  the 
moment  carried  more  emotion  than  it  should,  she  pre- 
tended indifference.  She  would  drag  her  friend  into  the 
conversation,  and  leave  her  there,  becoming,  it  would 
seem,  suddenly  oblivious  of  their  presence.  She  looked 
here  and  there;  she,  at  least,  if  only  to  cloak  her  own 
feeling,  studied  the  other  passengers. 

If  you  had  been  on  the  quai  at  that  moment,  and 
had  been  watching  Alison,  suddenly  you  would  have 
seen  the  colour  come  like  a  flood  over  her  face  and  neck, 
giving  place  as  suddenly  to  pallor.  She  whitened.  There 
was,  she  saw,  ten  minutes  before  the  train  would  go. 

"Constance,  dear,  we'll  leave  now.  I  think, perhaps, 
Mr.  Caerleon  will  like  to  go  to  his  place.  No,  we  won't 
wait"  —  this  last  to  Charles,  who  had  protested.  "I'm 
sure,  Mr.  Caerleon,  you'll  have  a  pleasant  journey;  I 
hope  you  will  find  agreeable  fellow  passengers."  And 
giving  him  a  cold  hand,  a  hand  as  irresponsive  as  that 
of  a  corpse,  she  tlianked  him  once  more  for  his  "kind- 
ness."  "Adieu,  Mr.  Caerleon,"  and  she  was  gone. 

"  I  shall  not  see  her  again  for  a  year,"  said  Charles  to 
himself.    "Why  did  she  go  like  that?" 

In  the  coupe  in  which  they  returned  to  the  hotel 
Alison  was  silent.   Mrs.  Phillips  could  understand,  and 


130  CAVIARE 

did  not  attempt  to  awaken  her.  For  once  her  friend- 
ship was  at  fault.  It  was  not  the  fact  that  Charles  had 
left  her  that  Alison  felt.  No;  she  had  seen  in  his  very 
carriage  on  the  train  a  door  of  one  the  compartments 
open,  and  through  the  window  —  she  could  not  have 
been  mistaken  —  she  had  recognised  the  young  girl  of 
four  nights  ago  —  the  lady  of  the  little  blue  turban. 

That  night  again  Alison  wept. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN    WHICH    APPEARS    SIR    PETER    BAIN,    COLLECTOR    OF 

PICTURES 

CHARLES  went  at  once  to  his  compartment, 
finding  now  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  not 
to  have  it  to  himself.  He  had,  however,  had 
the  unusual  sense  to  secure  the  upper  of  the  two  berths. 
Everyone  else  would  have  told  you  the  lower  was  the 
more  comfortable  and  convenient.  When  you  book  your 
place  in  a  wagon-lit  the  clerk  lifts  his  eyebrows  if  you 
ask  for  the  upper  place.  He  is  a  creature  of  habit. 
Charles  knew  better;  knew  that  although,  if  you  have 
the  lower  berth,  you  avoid  the  necessity  of  the  unhappy 
gj'innastic  efforts  with  which  you  climb  to  the  higher, 
yet  you  have  less  room  to  dress  in,  you  cannot  sit  up- 
right, you  are  further  from  the  racks.  Moreover,  you 
are  too  near  the  dressing  and  undressing  of  your  com- 
panion. No,  choose  the  higher;  and  while  you  arc  about 
it,  ask  always  for  a  centre  compartment  in  the  car:  so 
will  you  keep  away  from  the  noise,  the  reverberation 
of  the  wheels. 

Charles  had  dined,  so  he  had  no  ambition  but  to  turn 
in,  to  be  in  the  dark,  to  think  of  Alison  and  of  the  strange 
change  in  his  fortune,  his  plans,  which  the  last  week  had 
brought.  Everyone  else  but  the  conductor  was  in  the 
restaurant  car,  and  it  was  not  a  difficult  matter  to  get 
his  bed  made  up.    In  a  few  minutes  he  had  undressed. 


132  CAVIARE 

put  out  the  light,  and  with  his  face  to  the  wall  was  re- 
volving all  the  events,  the  incidents  of  the  past  five 
days.  He  hugged  his  memories  to  himself,  his  little  mo- 
mentary intimacies  with  Alison,  how  she  looked  at  this 
time  and  at  that,  how  she  had  smiled;  even  he  got  com- 
fort out  of  her  coldness,  her  occasional  aloofness.  And  she 
had  leant  on  him  a  little.  She  had  sought  and  she  had 
taken  his  advice  —  and  above  all  she  had  been  to  see 
him  off  that  evening.  He  had  not  noticed  her  "Adieu"; 
nor  had  he  seen  her  sudden  change  of  countenance.  He 
had  seen  her  seven  times.  What,  he  wondered,  did  her 
handwriting  look  like?  Alison  Caerleon  was  a  pretty 
name.  And  from  Alison  he  passed  to  her  father,  not  to 
think  of  his  whereabouts  or  his  discomforts  or  of  his 
future,  but  of  the  task  that  he  had  been  set.  There  was 
no  great,  no  surpassing  difficulty  about  it.  He  was  to  do 
his  best.  Surely  he  could  do  that.  And  supposing  — 
supposing  that  Mr.  Gorham  was  liberated  in  a  fortnight, 
and  found  that  his  edifice  had  crumbled  away  and  that 
he  had  no  longer  that  large  fortune  on  which  he  evidently 
set  so  much  store,  surrounding  himself  with  it  as  with  a 
new  frock-coat  —  well,  wouldn't  that  help  in  a  way? 
If  his  money  had  gone  he  might  be  more  willing  for 
Alison  to  marry  someone  who  was  n't  himself  rich. 
And  then  he  thought  of  Alison  again.  .  .  . 

Before  he  reached  Laroche  he  was  asleep. 

The  luxe  which  leaves  Paris  at  7.55  arrives  the  next 
morning  at  its  first  glimpse  of  the  real  Riviera,  of  the 
Rivieran  Mediterranean,  at  St.  Raphael,  at  about  ten. 
Charles,  who  knew  every  inch  of  the  route,  and  who  had 
slept  through  the  night  past  the  discreet  noises  of  Dijon 


SIR  PETER  BAIN,  COLLECTOR  OF  PICTURES  133 

and  Magon,  of  Lyon  and  Avignon,  and  had  even  almost 
slept  through  Marseilles,  had  planned  to  rise  at  Toulon. 
He  liked  to  take  his  breakfast  as  the  train  ran  past  the 
little  hill  towns,  the  dead  vineyards,  the  broad  plains 
that  stretch  from  that  arsenal  town  to  Frejus.  But  when 
he  turned  on  his  side  to  rise  he  discovered  that  his  sleep- 
ing companion  had  anticipated  him.  Not  a  bad-looking 
fellow,  he  thought  to  himself,  as  for  a  moment  he  watched 
him  struggling  with  his  boots  and  adjusting  a  careful  tie. 
He  wondered  who  he  was,  and  then  noticed  suddenly, 
that  from  the  roll  of  rugs  on  the  rack  at  a  level  with  his 
eyes  hung  a  label  —  *'  Sir  Peter  Bain,  49  Arlington  Street, 
Passenger  to  Monte  Carlo."  "Who  is  he?"  Charles 
asked  himself.  In  the  first  place,  he  had  a  kind  of  idea 
he'd  seen  him  before.  He  associated  him  with  some 
interest  he  himself  shared.  In  the  second,  he  was  sure 
he'd  heard  the  name  often  enough.  At  the  moment  he 
was  n't  really  awake.  It  would  all  come  back,  no  doubt, 
when  he  got  into  some  fresh  air. 

Just  then  the  man  turned  round  and  saw  that  Charles 
was  awake.  "I  hope  it  suited  you  my  getting  up  first. 
You  went  to  bed  long  before  me,  so  I  thought  you'd 
very  likely  get  up  first,  but  you  did  n't  —  so  I  made  a 
dash  for  it.  I'll  be  through  in  a  moment  now,  though." 

Charles  answered  politely.  He  did  n't  care,  he  said, 
when  he  got  up,  as  long  as  it  was  before  they  reached 
Monte  Carlo.  "And  you're  going  to  Monte  Carlo,  too, 
I  see  —  I  could  n't  help  reading  your  name  and  address 
on  that  label." 

"Yes,  I  go  every  year  —  and  so  do  you,  I  think.  I've 
seen  you  in  the  rooms  often  enough,  although  we've 


134  CAVIARE 

never  met  there."  He  laid  a  little  stress  on  the  "there"; 
Charles  was  n't  sure  whether  it  was  intentional.  He'd 
chance  it,  he  thought. 

"No,  I  know  we've  never  met  at  Monte  Carlo,  and 
I'm  so  beastly  blind  that  I  never  see  anyone"  —  a  white 
lie  that;  Charles  prided  himself  on  seeing  everything,  and 
remembering  everyone  who  was  worth  remembering, 
whether  he  knew  him  or  not,  —  "  but  I  've  an  idea  we ' ve 
met  somewhere  else.  I  can't  think  where,  though." 

"  I  can  tell  you,"  Sir  Peter  Bain  answered.  "  I  've  just 
remembered :  it  was  at  Christie's  one  morning  last  sum- 
mer. I  think  you  were  with  young  Shafto,  and  he  intro- 
duced us  —  but  I  've  forgotten  your  name.  I  was  very 
keen  about  that  Botticelli  I  bought  afterwards,  and  I  'ra 
afraid  I  did  n't  pay  much  attention  to  anything  else," 

Botticelli  —  Sir  Peter  Bain :  why,  of  course;  it  all 
came  back  now.  So  this  was  the  man  whom  all  the 
people  in  one  of  Charles's  many  worlds  had  talked  so 
much  about,  the  inspired  Scotsman  who  had  presented 
a  hundred  thousand  pounds'  worth  of  pictures  to  Car- 
burgh  in  order  that  the  young  Carburghian  might  learn 
the  path  to  tread,  and  who  had  been  more  abused  than 
praised  for  his  generosity,  whom  people  quarrelled 
about  so,  who  was  lauded  here  to  the  skies  for  his  flair, 
his  knowledge,  his  disinterestedness,  and  who  there  was 
blackguarded  as  a  dealer  in  disguise,  a  man  who  was  pil- 
ing up  millions  by  some  species  of  artistic  trickery  about 
which  no  one  seemed  to  be  able  to  be  explicit.  "  Well,  if 
you  don't  remember  my  name  we're  quits,  because  I 
certainly  never  heard  yours  that  day  at  Christie's  —  or 
I  'd  have  remembered  having  met  you.  We  know  lots  of 


SIR  PETER  BAIN,  COLLECTOR  OF  PICTURES  135 

people  in  common.  Were  n't  you  stopping  the  other 
day  with  my  sister-in-law,  Lady  Bude?  I  was  asked  to 
come,  but  I  could  n't,  for  some  reason  —  oh !  I  know : 
I'd  arranged  to  start  for  the  South." 

And  in  this  way,  while  Bain  finished  his  dressing,  the 
talk  went  on.  "I  don't  suppose  you'll  be  long:  I'll  sit 
outside  and  smoke  a  cigarette,  and  we  can  have  break- 
fast together,  if  you  like  —  if  you  're  going  to  breakfast ! " 

"Rather.  I'm  hungry  now.  I  dined  before  I  left 
Paris.  Besides,  you  can  see  so  much  more  from  the 
restaurant  car.  I've  come  along  this  coast  times  with- 
out number,  and  yet  I  never  tire  of  looking  at  it.  Good 
Heavens!  here  we  are  at  Les  Arcs,  aren't  we?  I'll 
hurry;  I  must  be  dressed  in  time  to  see  Agay." 

I  think  it  may  be  fair  to  those  of  my  readers  who  may 
want  to  get  through  this  book  as  quickly  as  they  can,  in 
order  that  it  may  be  returned  to  friend  or  library,  if  I 
say  straightway  that  they  won't  lose  any  of  the  thread 
of  the  story  if  they  skip  all  the  Peter  Bain  passages.  I 
have  brought  him  in  for  three  reasons  —  that  he  did 
travel  down  in  Charles's  compartment;  that  of  all 
Charles's  circle  he  is  the  one  who  interests  me  the  most, 
who  seems  to  me  most  amusing  and  most  worth  while  to 
describe;  and  that  I  am  anxious  that  you  should  know 
that  Charles  made  other  friends  than  maitres  d'hotel  and 
croupiers,  and  had  other  interests  than  food,  frocks,  and 
games  of  chance.  Ke  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  very  glad 
to  meet  Bain.  All  he  had  heard  of  his  taste,  of  his  way- 
ward generosities,  of  his  curious  meanness,  had  inter- 
ested him.    A  French  critic  had  described  him  in  the 


136  CAVIARE 

"Figaro"  as  "a  tramp  —  yes,  but  a  tramp  who  has  only 
to  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket  in  order  to  produce  tens 
of  thousands,  hundreds  of  thousands  of  francs."  Some- 
one else  has  spoken  of  him  as  "the  D'Artagnan  of  the 
art  world"  —  an  inexpert  analogy,  but  not  ill  conceived. 
Max  drew  him  as  a  conjurer  in  the  act  of  drawing  mas- 
terpiece after  masterpiece  out  of  his  hat  to  the  astonish- 
ment, the  chagrin,  of  a  hundred  critics.  In  fact,  he  was  a 
character,  and  Charles  liked  characters.  It  was  unlikely, 
however,  he  feared,  as  he  dressed,  that  Bain  would  talk; 
it  was  more  likely  that  he  would  be  reticent.  You  see, 
Charles  did  n't  know  Bain. 

Charles  soon  found,  to  his  great  satisfaction,  that  Bain 
had,  at  least  about  his  own  affairs,  not  the  slightest 
hesitation  in  talking  in  the  frankest,  most  open,  and 
(seemingly)  the  most  indiscreet  of  ways.  As  they  ran 
round  the  little  bay  where  nestles  the  one  comfortable 
inn  on  the  Riviera,  under  Les  Trayas,  past  Cannes  and 
Moorish-looking  Antibes,  they  talked.  Charles  forgot 
his  preoccupations;  Alison  and  Mr.  Gorham  receded 
into  the  back  of  his  mind.  He  found  that  all  he  had  to  do 
was  to  ask  an  occasional  question  and  the  river  would 
continue  to  flow  —  that  river  of  amiable  and  acid,  gen- 
erous and  selfish  talk.  To  enjoy  Bain  most  fully  one 
should  know  him  well,  him  and  his  circle.  One  knew  then 
the  importance  one  should  give  to  this  story  and  that  — 
what  to  discount.  For  instance,  he  told  Charles  he 
could  n't  afford  to  live  for  the  fortnight  of  his  holiday  at 
Monte  Carlo  itself. 

"I  used  always  to  stop  in  the  Condamine  for  seven 
francs  a  day  —  oh,  yes,  pension,  I  mean.  I  'd  go  there 


SIR  PETER  BAIN,  COLLECTOR  OF  PICTURES  137 

now,  but  the  place  has  been  pulled  down.  So  I  'm  going 
to  the  Riva  Bella  at  Cap  Martin.  That's  pretty  cheap, 
and  one  does  n't  have  to,  one  can't,  spend  all  one's  time 
in  the  rooms:  it's  such  a  job  getting  in  and  out.  And, 
anyhow,  I  can't  play  this  year:  my  banker  won't  let  me. 
I  told  him  I  was  coming  out,  and  he  said  quite  frankly 
that  it  was  n't  any  use  my  drawing  cheques,  for  he 
would  n't  honour  them." 

"Why,  did  you  lose  so  much  other  years?" 
"No,  but  I  lost  enough.  It  became  a  sort  of  habit 
with  me  coming  down  here.  It  was  a  change.  I'd  be 
worried  to  death  in  London,  and  have  half  Carburgh 
writing  me  letters  that  ought  to  be  answered,  and  I'd 
feel  that  the  only  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  do  was  to 
get  right  away.  There  is  n't  any  place  in  the  world  in 
which  you  can  get  so  right  away  as  you  can  here.  Per- 
haps it's  only  changing  one  nervous  excitement  for  an- 
other, but  it  is  a  change :  that 's  the  great  thing.  Why,  the 
first  time  I  came  I  had  no  more  idea  of  playing  than  I  had 
of  offering  to  drive  this  train.  An  old  lady  I  know  wrote 
to  me  that  as  I  was  n't  well  I  'd  better  come  down  for  a 
couple  of  weeks  and  keep  her  company,  that  I  was  n't 
to  think  it  was  expensive,  that  she  could  get  me  a  room 
at  less  than  a  couple  of  pounds  a  week,  all  included,  and 
that  as  for  gambling  —  well,  she  never  went  near  the 
rooms.  So  I  packed  up  gaily  and  came  —  in  a  second- 
class  carriage  in  a  slow  train.  But,  of  course,  I  had  to  see 
the  gambling,  and  then  it  took  hold  of  me  rather,  and  I 
lost  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds.  I  had  a  feeling  I  was 
ruined.  I  did  n't  lose  it,  of  course,  in  one  swoop.  I  lost  a 
little  —  all  I  had  with  me;  and  then  I  sent  for  more  — 


138  CAVIARE 

and  so  on.  Well,  I  'd  lost  my  couple  of  hundred,  and  after 
that  I  just  did  my  best  to  enjoy  the  place.  I  did  n't  play, 
anyway.  The  last  day  I  was  leaving  by  the  afternoon 
train.  I'd  been  in  to  look  at  the  tables,  and  I  said  to 
myself  that  I  'd  never  see  'em  again.  Then  I  took  a  walk 
at  the  back.  There's  a  curiosity-dealer  there  —  I  expect 
you  know  him:  Felicien.  I  saw  a  couple  of  portraits 
in  his  window.  They  were  n't  quite  my  kind  of  thing, 
but  they  seemed  pretty  good.  He  said  they  'd  been  sent 
down  from  Paris  because  no  one  would  buy  them  there. 
They  were  five  thousand  francs.  I  offered  four  —  and 
got  them.  So  he  did  them  up,  and  he'd  send  them  when 
I  sent  the  money.  I  sent  it,  of  course,  —  a  couple  of  days 
later.  Two  days  after  they  reached  London  I  sold  the 
pair  for  seven  hundred  and  eighty  pounds  to  a  dealer, 
what's  his  name,  in  the  Hay  market.  After  that,  I  felt 
easier  in  my  mind  about  the  only  visit  I  ever  intended 
paying  to  Monte  Carlo.  Since  then  I've  been  down 
every  year." 

And  so  Bain  went  on.  One  story  capped  another. 
Truly,  he  was  marvellous.  Not  the  least  marvel  about 
him,  Charles  said  to  himself,  was  that  here  he  was  in 
the  luxe,  which  costs  just  about  as  much  as  any  train 
can  cost,  and  yet  he  refused  to  stop  in  Monte  Carlo 
itself  because  of  .the  expense.  He  was  to  see  other  of 
Bain's  economies  later,  and  to  come  to  learn  that  it  was 
just  by  those  economies  that  he  had  made  his  life,  had 
achieved  his  successes,  had  conquered,  again  and  again, 
the  Philistines.  But  they  were  at  Nice.  ^  It  was  time  to 
go  back  to  their  compartment.  Monte  Carlo  would  only 
be  a  question  of  a  few  minutes. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A   HOT   BATH   AT   THE   HOTEL   DE   PARIS 

TO  return  to  any  place  year  by  year  is  to  court 
unhappiness.  One's  friends  pass.  In  any  nor- 
mal world  some  die  or  go  away.  In  this  gay  and 
sinister  world  of  the  South  they  died  and  they  went 
away  —  and  they  disappeared  and  they  were  broken. 
So-and-So  would  blossom  for  a  season  —  and  then  there 
would  be  whispers  —  and  he  would  blossom  no  more. 
For  one,  for  two,  for  three  years,  in  that  circle  which 
Charles  knew  so  well,  some  girl  would  be  queen  —  and 
then  she  too  would  cease  to  charm.  She  was  ill,  one  might 
hear;  or  one  might  hear  nothing:  she  had  gone  out.  For 
some  reason  Charles,  who  had  come  so  regularly  to  this 
devil's  playground,  felt  these  changes  this  year  more 
than  ever.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he  was  older  —  at 
thirty-three  one  is  older !  —  perhaps  because  for  the  first 
time  he  came  from  the  coldness  of  the  North,  perhaps 
because  he  had  in  the  last  few  days  been  closer  to  reali- 
ties. But  whatever  the  reason  Charles  had  no  light  heart. 
Even  aside  from  his  cares  about  Alison  in  Paris,  it  did  n't 
seem  such  an  easy,  such  an  attractive  world.  They 
passed  Villefranche,  Beaulieu,  Eze,  Cap  d'Ail.  Charles 
remembered  the  parties  he  had  given,  the  friends  he  had 
taken  here  and  there  —  even  the  money  he  had  wasted. 
.  .  .  Charles    tried   to   banish    these  unhappy  happy 


140  CAVIARE 

memories  and  turned  to  his  new  friend.  They  had  just 
passed  Monaco  station. 

Monte  Carlo  I  Monte  Carlo  !  It  is  impossible  to  cap- 
ture the  inflection  every  regular  visitor  knows  so  well. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Williamson  have  anticipated  my  attempt 
at  local  colour  by  using  the  boy  who  announces  the 
ascenseur,  so  I  must  n't  follow  in  their  path.  Charles  saw 
all  the  familiar  faces.  There  was  the  old  porter  with  the 
white  moustache,  and  there  was  Cook's  man  who  knows 
so  much  more  than  he  will  ever  tell  you;  and  outside  the 
station  all  the  regular  hotel  porters  who  recognised  half 
the  people  who  came  from  the  train,  and  could  tell  you 
which  of  them  was  good  for  ten  francs  and  which  for 
five,  and  —  for  even  in  that  world  it  is  a  very  different 
matter  —  which  were  gentle.  They  could  very  likely 
have  told  you  too  which  were  honest  —  and  that  again 
is  a  different  thing. 

Charles  was  expected.  His  man  was  on  the  platform. 
He  had  little  luggage,  and  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  get 
out  of  the  station  and  walk  up  to  the  Paris  —  the  Hotel 
de  Paris.  He  had  said  good-bye  to  Bain.  They  were 
surely  to  meet  again  —  and  at  once.  No,  Bain  would  n't 
come  to  the  Paris.  Cap  Martin  was  good  enough  for 
him. 

On  the  Paris  steps  Charles  was  welcomed  by  the  ex- 
cellent Fleuret  himself.  It  was  suitable  that  he  should 
be.  Charles  was  one  of  the  oldest  and  the  most  regular 
of  the  hotel's  visitors.  He,  at  least,  had  never  given  the 
hotel  any  anxiety  —  any  financial  anxiety.  He  has- 
tened to  say  that  he  was  only  there  anyhow  for  a  few 
days  —  perhaps  even  only  for  that  day.   He  might  go 


A   HOT   BATH  AT  THE   HOTEL   DE   PARIS  141 

back  that  night.  He  'd  tell  them  later  on.  So  to  his  room 
and  to  his  bath. 

The  sun  streamed  into  Charles's  window,  and  as  he 
lay  in  his  bath  he  could  see  the  mountains  above  Roque- 
brune.  But  it  was  not  about  Monte  Carlo  that  he  was 
thinking,  but  about  Alison  and  the  year  that  was  before 
him.  Not  vainly  had  he  said  that  he  might  go  away  that 
night.  The  truth  was  he  had  now  a  sense  of  unrest. 
Vaguely  in  his  mind  he  had  made  a  sort  of  plan  for  this 
raid.  He  was  to  retrieve  his  luggage,  and  dismiss  Bowles 
and  send  him  back  to  England,  and  he  would  see  one  or 
two  friends,  and  he  would  play  a  little  —  this  one  last 
time.  He  would  play  with  the  money  he  had  still  in  his 
pocket.  He  had  given  away  money  at  the  Abbaye  (and 
had  never  regretted  it);  he  had  paid  his  bills  in  Paris; 
he  had  paid  for  his  ticket  to  New  York :  what  was  left  he 
would  lose  —  or  save.  Chance  should  decide.  Charles 
had  n't  any  exact  system;  he  had  a  method.  At  this 
moment  he  felt  he  did  n't  care  what  happened  in  the 
Rooms.  He  would  win  or  lose,  turn  his  face  toward 
England  or  stop  a  few  days  in  Monaco,  just  as  the  fates 
should  decide. 

So  he  lay  and  lazed  —  till  the  water  grew  cold.  Dried 
and  half  clothed,  he  examined  his  pocket-book,  his 
sovereign-purse,  and  his  loose  change.  He  had,  he  found, 
ten  five  hundred  franc  notes,  two  notes  for  a  hundred 
francs,  six  louis,  and  twenty-seven  francs  in  silver  — 
exactly  five  thousand  three  hundred  and  forty-seven 
francs  in  all.  One  or  two  English  sovereigns  he  had  and 
some  English  silver,  but  English  money  did  n't  count. 


142  CAVIARE 

He  would  put  into  his  stud-box  the  three  hundred  and 
forty-seven  francs:  that  would  pay  his  bill  and  his  ex- 
penses back  to  London  when  everything  else  was  gone. 
I  make  no  excuses  for  Charles.  This  was  to  be  his  last 
fling.  Mr.  Gorham  might  n't  approve,  but  there  was 
something  logical  in  playing  with  the  money  he  had 
brought  from  England  to  play  with.  He'd  go  back  to 
Paris,  and  to  England,  see  his  lawyer  .  .  .  and  then 
good-bye,  irresponsibility. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IN    WHICH    THE    AMIABLE    CHARLES    PREPABES    FOB    AN 
ENCOUNTER   WITH    THE   GODDESS   OF   CHANCE 

DRESSED,  shaved,  clean  and  clean  feeling, 
Charles  left  the  hotel.  He  was  a  little  at  a  loss. 
Where  should  he  breakfast?  A  creature  of 
habit,  always  on  his  first  day  at  Monte  Carlo  he  lunched 
chez  Ciro  —  on  the  terrace  if  it  were  fine  and  quiet,  in 
the  restaurant  but  against  the  window  if  it  were  wet  or 
grey.  But  a  year  had  brought  great  changes.  No  longer 
was  Ciro's  what  it  was  —  for  Ciro  himself  was  not  there. 
Charles  had  been  told  that  he  was  living  elsewhere,  in  a 
palace.  It  was  very  likely.  Anyhow,  he  was  gone.  He 
had  sold  his  restaurant  to  a  syndicate  —  an  English 
syndicate.  Now,  a  syndicate  may  be  all  very  well,  but 
what  was  an  English  syndicate  doing  with  a  restaurant, 
anyway?  Charles  had  nothing  against  it;  in  fact,  he 
thought  he  knew  some  of  its  members;  but  how  he  did 
hate  his  habits  being  upset!  He  had  lunched  regularly, 
as  I  say,  on  arriving  at  Monte  Carlo,  in  the  Galerie 
Charles  IH,  because  he  knew  that  Ciro  would  welcome 
him,  and  would  tell  him  who  had  come  back,  and  would 
give  him  a  feeling  of  warmth.  Besides,  everybody  walked 
in  the  Galerie  before  and  after  lunch  and  he  used  thus 
quickly  to  find  his  friends.  A  syndicate  could  n't  pro- 
vide him  with  all  these  advantages.   No,  indeed. 

You  may  wonder  why  I  appear  to  make  such  a  fuss 


144  CAVIARE 

about  Giro.  Really,  I  don't.  His  disappearance  was  an 
affair  of  importance  to  Charles.  Perhaps  after  all,  though, 
he  said  to  himself,  it  did  n't  so  very  much  matter,  be- 
cause he  was  only  here  for  a  day  or  two,  and  likely 
would  never  come  again.  But  it  was  also  a  matter  of 
importance  to  all  that  world  which  amuses  itself.  Giro 
knew.  Giro  was  a  character.  And  character  is  dying  out 
—  even  at  Monte  Garlo.  A  syndicate  has  no  character; 
Gook's  tourists  are  all  as  alike  as  two  peas;  I  don't  think 
it  possible  to  distinguish  one  bourgeois  German  from 
another.  Soon  Monte  Garlo  will  contain  nothing  but 
German  bourgeois,  Gook's  tourists,  the  Giro  syndicate, 
and  the  various  activities  of  the  Hotel  de  Paris.  Gharles 
thought  all  these  things  as  he  strolled  on  the  terrace  and 
wondered  where  all  the  smart  people  were.  He  had 
wondered  that  same  thing  every  year  since  his  first  visit. 
Indeed,  he  thought  so  deeply  about  the  Principality's 
decline,  and  so  earnestly  about  the  days  that  were  com- 
ing and  what  he  should  have  to  do,  and  about  Mr.  Gor- 
ham,  and,  above  all,  about  Alison,  whom  he  should  not 
see  for  a  year,  that  no  one  spoke  to  him.  Such  friends  as 
would  have  welcomed  him  thought  he  must  be  working 
out  a  system  ...  or  perhaps  he  had  come  yesterday, 
had  chanced  not  to  meet  them,  and  had  lost.  .  .  .  One 
does  n't  interrupt  the  reveries  of  the  obvious  loser. 

Gharles  humbugged  himself.  He  thought  he  was  glad 
that  he  could  be  here  only  a  few  hours.  Monte  Garlo 
was  n't  what  it  had  been.  He  'd  breakfast,  and  then 
lose  his  money  if  chance  so  willed  it,  and  go  away. 
The  sooner  the  better.  But,  again,  where  should  he 
breakfast? 


k 


i 


(  .\i:i!I.I,(lN    AT    MONTK   CARLO 


PREPARATIONS   FOR   AN   ENCOUNTER       145 

He  chose  the  Cafe  de  Paris. 

As  he  lunched  he  continued  his  meditations.  He  could 
find  nothing  to  be  cheerful  about.  His  mind  revolved 
in  a  cage  —  Alison  was  at  one  end  of  it,  Mr.  Gorham  at 
the  other.  There  was  no  certainty  anywhere,  Mr.  Gor- 
ham had  disappeared;  and  even  if  he  had  n't,  and  even 
if  he  were  still  happy  and  successful,  pink  and  eupeptic, 
in  the  Meurice,  he  was  not  necessarily  an  ally  of  Charles's. 
And  as  for  Alison  —  he  was  n't  to  see  her  again  for  a  year, 
and  he  was  not  to  tell  her  of  his  love.  If  Mr.  Gorham 
had  n't  let  that  cat  out  of  the  bag  already,  he  was  less 
likely  to  do  so  in  the  future.  He'd  have  something  else 
to  think  of  when  his  captors  had  liberated  him;  and  why 
should  Alison  remember  him?  If  she'd  liked  him  at  all 
—  well,  she  'd  soon  forget  him.  He  could  n't  even  tell  her 
why  he  had  gone  away.  What  a  fool  he  had  been  to  give 
such  a  promise!  Still,  it  was  too  late  now  to  alter. 

"  Un  bon  cigare.  Monsieur  ?  "  Charles  hated  restaurant 
cigars,  but  he  took  one  to  pass  the  time.  He  had  a 
good  mind  to  go  across  to  the  hotel,  pay  his  bill,  and  go 
away.  But  where  to?  The  Mauretania  did  n't  sail  for  a 
week.  Better  stop  here  as  long  as  his  money  lasted. 
And  that  reminded  him:  he  must  play  seriously,  on  a 
method,  if  he  played  at  all.  This  time  it  did  n't  matter 
whether  he  won  or  lost — or  it  didn't  matter  much. 
Charles  had  a  fatalistic  feeling  about  that  couple  of 
hundred  pounds.  Well,  he'd  not  be  a  fool.  If  he  could 
win,  he  would.  He  worked  out  what  I  believe  the  habit- 
ual, the  "scientific,"  gambler  calls  a  method  of  attack. 

Two  hundred  pounds  is  five  thousand  francs.  To 
begin  with,  for  every  expense  he  had  while  he  was  here, 


146  CAVIARE 

such  an  expense  as  this  lunch  for  instance,  and  tipping 
the  cloak-room  attendant,  he'd  employ  that  five  thou- 
sand francs.  No,  not  the  whole  of  it,  of  course !  I  mean, 
he  'd  change  one  of  the  notes  in  paying  his  bill.  In  fact, 
in  this  he  had  a  veritable  system.  For  everything  that  he 
wanted  he  paid  in  gold;  the  change  he  put  in  a  separate 
pocket.  It  spoiled  his  clothes,  but  it  amused  him  to  have 
kept  something  from  the  wreck  when  the  game  went 
against  him.  Getting  back  to  the  hotel,  it  was  easy  to 
tumble  all  the  loose  change  —  the  half-louis,  the  five- 
franc  pieces,  and  the  sous  —  into  his  despatch-box,  and 
to  start  again.  That  was  detail  number  one.  Detail 
number  two  was  that  whenever  he  won  he  would  pocket 
his  winnings  —  pocket  them  in  a  very  real  sense.  Let  me 
explain :  he  pocketed  his  winnings  whenever  he  won  — 
not  all  the  winnings  of  any  individual  coup,  but  the  net 
winnings  of  any  one  series  of  coups.  The  trouble  with  all 
writers  about  gambling  is  that  they  seldom,  if  ever,  make 
their  details  clear.  I  'm  going  to  make  Charles's  opera- 
tions clear,  even  if  I  have  to  run  this  history  into  two 
volumes.  Anyhow,  I  shall  thus  have  the  satisfaction 
of  knowing  that  I  must  sell  one  copy;  that  it  must  have 
a  place  in  Mr.  Jessel's  collection;  and  that,  later,  bound 
in  leather,  it  will  rest  with  its  fellows,  with  a  thousand 
other  books,  far  less  amusing,  but  all  dealing  with  games 
of  chance,  in  the  Bodleian. 

But  to  return.  In  the  game  Charles  contemplated 
playing,  one  made  a  definite  "attack"  on  the  bank. 
One  won  —  or  one  lost;  but  one's  fate  was  usually  not 
immediately  decided.  It  is  true  one  might  win  at  the 
first  coup  —  and  in  that  case  that  "attack"  would  be  at 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  AN  ENCOUNTER   147 

an  end,  and  so  much  would  have  been  gained;  but  the 
first  coup  might  be  lost,  and  the  second,  and  the  third, 
and  the  fourth  —  and  then  everything  depended  on  the 
fifth:  if  that  went  down,  the  "attack"  had  failed.  When 
I  spoke  of  Charles  pocketing  his  winnings,  I  meant  that 
he  pocketed  his  winnings  on  each  series  of  coups.  He 
had,  as  I  have  said,  two  hundred  and  fifty  louis.  He 
had  determined  that  with  those  two  hundred  and  fifty 
louis  he  would  attack  the  bank  —  just  once  if  he  lost, 
and,  if  he  won,  then  he  would  go  on  playing  until  he 
failed  in  an  "attack."  His  idea  was  to  divide  his 
capital  into  so  many  parts,  so  many  louis  to  each  stake. 
He  thought  of  ten  for  the  first,  and,  since  he  was  in  no  mood 
for  a  small  or  piking  game,  of  doubling  up  five  times:  ten, 
twenty,  forty,  eighty,  one-fifty — one-fifty,  because  three 
mille  notes  is  as  much  as  you  can  stake  on  this  kind  of 
chance.  But  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  required  a  capital 
of  three  hundred  louis,  and  he  was  fifty  short  of  that 
sum.  He  would  play  indifferently,  as  the  fancy  seized 
him,  on  the  dozens  and  the  columns,  but  keeping  always 
to  the  stakes  he'd  decided  on.  Few  of  my  readers  will 
need  to  be  told  that  if  at  roulette  you  have  ten  louis  on 
a  dozen  or  a  column,  and  a  number  turns  up  which  is 
included  in  the  dozen  or  column  on  which  you  have 
staked,  you  get  your  money  back  and  twenty  louis  in 
addition.  And  that,  accordingly,  would  be  the  result  of 
hitting  the  right  dozen  or  column  at  the  first  attempt. 
But  if  Charles  lost  the  first  coup  and  won  the  second, 
then,  as  on  the  second  attempt  he  had  staked  twenty 
louis,  he  would  obviously  win  forty  louis.  You  must 
subtract  from  that  forty  the  ten  lost  —  the  first  coup. 


148  CAVIARE 

Net  result:  a  gain  of  thirty  louis.  That  thirty  louis  he 
would  pocket.  If  success  were  refractory  for  the  second 
coup,  you  can  work  out  for  yourself  the  gain  if  it  came 
with  the  third  —  and  likewise  if  it  came  not  till  the 
fourth  or  the  fifth.  It  is  all  very  easy,  and  it  does  sound 
the  simplest  possible  way  of  making  money;  but  I  beg 
you  not  to  forget  that  at  each  coup  it  is  always  two  to 
one  against  your  choosing  the  right  column  or  dozen, 
and,  although  it  is  five  to  two  on  your  choosing  it  in  five 
shots,  five  to  two  on  chances,  even  when  mathematically 
calculated,  have  an  unhappy  habit  of  coming  undone. 
Moreover,  there  is  alwaj^s  zero. 

Charles  had  decided  to  play  in  this  way  because  he 
thought  it  would  give  him  more  fun  for  his  money, 
more  excitement.  His  fate,  if  luck  was  against  him, 
would  soon  be  decided.  There  is  no  game  in  the  world 
at  which  you  can  so  quickly  lose  your  capital  as  at 
roulette,  if  the  luck  is  against  you  —  especially,  if,  the 
habitual  gambler  would  tell  you,  you  are  playing  against 
the  table,  against  the  run.  How  often  had  Charles  been 
bitten !  One  evening  he  remembered  —  one  bitter 
evening.  He  had  come  across  to  Monte  Carlo  from 
Beaulieu,  with  a  lady  in  whose  villa  he  was  staying. 
"We'll  go  over  soon  after  breakfast,"  she  had  said  to 
him.  "I've  got  to  try  on  a  dress;  afterward  we'll  play 
for  half  an  hour  —  oh  no,  no  more,  —  and  then  we'll 
get  back  in  plenty  of  time  for  lunch."  That  day  Charles 
had  no  money  on  him  to  speak  of  —  and  as  he  was  to  be 
in  the  place  for  so  short  a  time,  he  refrained  from  getting 
any.  Going  into  the  Rooms  with  his  hostess,  he  found 
that  his  capital  was  seven  louis.   He  put  three  on  the 


PREPARATIONS   FOR  AN   ENCOUNTER      149 

first  dozen.  It  turned  up.  He  now  had  thirteen  louis. 
Five  of  them  he  left  in  the  same  place.  He  lost.  The 
eight  that  remained  took  their  place.  Again  the  first 
dozen  turned  up.  He  now  had  twenty-four  louis.  He 
noticed  that  all  the  three  coups  he  had  played  had  been 
in  the  third  column.  He  put  the  whole  of  his  capital  a 
cheval  between  the  first  and  second  —  in  effect  putting 
twelve  on  the  first  and  twelve  on  the  second.  The  first 
column  turned  up.  Now  he  had  thirty-six  louis.  That 
was  enough,  he  thought:  a  gain  of  twenty-nine  louis  in 
five  minutes.  A  drink,  and  then  he  would  go  and  search 
for  his  hostess.  Gamblers  generally  separate  on  entering 
the  Rooms.  It  is  considered  more  tactful.  One  is  less 
embarrassed  in  winning,  less  excited  in  losing.  But  his 
hostess  was  losing.  "  Charles,  dear,  you  can  go  back  and 
lunch  by  yourself;  I'll  come  when  I've  got  back  what 
I've  lost  or  lost  what  I've  got."  Nothing  Charles  could 
say  would  move  her.  He  hovered  about,  hoping  she'd 
still  encounter  some  decisive  sequence.  But  her  fortune 
was  so-so.  "Do  go  away,"  she  said:  "if  you  won't  go 
back  to  the  villa,  go  and  lunch  at  Ciro's.  Look  for  me 
here  at  two." 

Charles  did  n't  exactly  see  himself  lunching  alone  in 
the  circumstances,  and  he  went  out  and  walked  about, 
bought  a  button-hole,  had  another  drink  and  a  sandwich 
—  and  came  back  at  two.  Still  his  hostess  was  rather 
losing  than  winning.  She  had  come  to  one  of  those 
streaks  in  which  good  luck  is  just  counterbalanced  by 
bad.   Nothing  happened. 

So  Charles  began  to  play  again  —  largely  out  [of 
boredom.   I  won't  bother  you  with  how  he  played  —  in 


ISO  CAVIARE 

much  the  same  way  as  he  had  done  in  the  morning;  and 
with  the  same  success.  But  he  won  rather  less  as  he  was 
being  more  careful.  At  three  he  was  another  twenty -four 
louis  to  the  good.  But  his  friend  even  now  would  n't 
move.  There  she  had  been  since  eleven  o'clock:  she 
had  n't  missed  a  coup,  and  she  had  n't  won  a  piece. 
Picking  oakum  was  nothing  to  it.  "Mrs.  Gerald,"  he 
said,  "I  shall  now  walk  up  to  Monaco  and  round  the 
Rock.  I  shall  be  ashamed  of  you  if  you  are  n't  ready 
when  I  come  back.  I'll  come  and  take  you  to  tea  at 
four.  If  you  are  n't  here,  I  '11  expect  to  find  you  in  the 
Atrium." 

Charles  did  these  things.  "Yes,  I'll  come  now,"  his 
hostess  said;  and  Charles,  who  was  both  dusty  and 
hungry,  thought  that  they'd  have  tea  and  would  then 
catch  the  first  train.  He  found  that  his  friend  had  other 
plans.  They  had  tea  at  Madame  Eckenberg's  (Charles 
was  to  find  later  that  Madame  Eckenberg  whom  he  had 
known  so  long  was  gone  too),  and  as  they  finished  he  was 
told  that  he  of  course  was  to  go  back  to  Beaulieu,  but 
that  Mrs.  Gerald  would  return  to  the  Rooms.  He  knew 
her  well  enough  to  argue  with  her,  and  to  ask  her  what 
was  the  net  result  of  her  day's  labour.  The  argument  was 
useless;  and  he  found  that  having  started  her  game  with 
fifty  louis,  having  remained  at  the  table  without  a  break 
for  five  hours,  and  having  in  effect  played  every  coup 
for  five  hours,  she  now  had  forty-one  louis  left.  Charles 
told  her  the  story  about  the  late  Duke  of  Devonshire. 
He  had  been  to  Newmarket,  and  coming  back  met  a 
friend.  "Had  a  good  day?"  he  was  asked.  "Oh,  yes, 
quite  —  quite    good,"    he    replied    cheerfully.     "Won 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  AN  ENCOUNTER   151 

much?"  "No,  but  I  just  got  round  on  the  last  race  — 
I  've  neither  lost  nor  won."  "  If  you  call  that  a  good  day, 
what's  the  good  of  betting?"  his  friend  asked.  What, 
indeed?  The  Duke  seems  —  or  so  the  story  goes  —  to 
have  thought  the  matter  over;  he  never  betted  again. 

The  story  left  Mrs.  Gerald  cold.  She  was  quite  sure 
that  she  ought  to  go  on  playing.  It  is  a  form  of  self- 
deception  to  which  the  gambler,  and  especially  the 
female  gambler,  is  peculiarly  liable.  "Ought"  is  the 
word  they  use.  If  they  don't  go  on  they  reproach  them- 
selves afterwards.  So  Mrs.  Gerald  returned,  and  Charles 
returned  with  her,  and  played  a  little  and  won  and  walked 
about  and  played  a  little  more  and  won,  and  was  gener- 
ally bored.  Dancing  attendance  on  obstinate  women 
was  not  an  amusement  after  his  heart.  He'd  never  be 
induced  to  stop  with  anyone  on  the  Riviera  again!  And 
he  never  has.  For  him  the  freedom  of  an  hotel.  Just  now, 
because  he  was  bored,  he  played  in  the  boldest  way. 
He  'd  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket,  by  now  fairly  full  of 
gold  and  crumpled  billets,  and  dragging  out  as  much  as 
came  would  walk  to  a  table,  hand  it  to  the  chef,  and 
announce  the  first  two  dozens  or  the  last  two  columns. 
His  luck  was  uncanny.  If  he  lost,  it  was  with  some  small 
stake;  and  with  the  next,  a  larger,  he'd  at  once  retrieve 
that  loss. 

The  hours  passed.  Charles  could  n't  get  Mrs.  Gerald 
to  come  home  to  dinner,  nor  could  he  very  well  go  and 
dine  by  himself,  so  he  hung  about  and  talked  to  friends, 
and  smoked  cigarettes  in  the  Atrium,  and  went  out  to 
look  in  the  shop  windows,  and  bought  a  fur  stole  for  his 
sister.  And  then  a  kind  lady,  who  preferred  gambling  to 


152  CAVIARE 

music,  let  him  occupy  her  seat  for  one  act  in  the  Opera, 
while  she  lost  her  money  at  trente-et-guarante.  It  was 
now  ten  o'clock.  The  Rooms  closed  at  eleven.  Charles 
went  to  Mrs.  Gerald.  "  I  've  had  no  dinner,  so  I  'm  going 
across  to  Giro's  to  get  something  to  eat.  I'll  be  back 
and  in  the  Atrium  just  under  where  they  put  up  the 
news  at  five  minutes  past  eleven  exactly."  She  answered 
with  her  approval  impatiently,  and  he  walked  across  to 
the  Galerie.  Finding  himself  alone  in  the  restaurant, 
while  he  was  waiting  for  his  foies  de  volaille  en  brochettes 
and  his  half -bottle  of  1889  Goulet,  he  thought  he'd 
better  find  out  how  his  money  stood  and  at  least  arrange 
it.  He  was  conscious,  as  gamblers  sometimes  (all  too 
seldom)  are,  of  a  certain  inconvenience  in  walking  about 
with  a  heavy  weight  dragging  at  his  pocket.  One  would 
hardly  do  such  a  thing  in  a  London  or  Paris  restaurant, 
but  it  was  no  extraordinary  sight  in  Monte  Garlo.  He 
cleared  out  his  pockets.  First  he  subtracted  the  seven 
louis  with  which  he  had  started,  and  then  proceeded 
to  arrange  the  gold  or  paper  that  remained  over  in 
separate  heaps.  There  were  three  thousand  franc  notes, 
five  of  five  hundred  francs,  and  of  gold  one  hundred  and 
eight  twenty-franc  pieces  —  seven  thousand  six  hun- 
dred and  sixty  francs:  more  than  three  hundred  pounds, 
even  after  allowing  for  the  exchange.  Well,  after  all, 
the  day  had  n't  been  badly  spent;  he  need  n't  have  been 
so  bored,  or  so  angry  with  Mrs.  Gerald.  And  he  'd  bought 
a  stole  too. 

The  chickens'  livers  came  and  the  champagne  came, 
and  Charles  lingered  over  them.  Having  had  so  satis- 
factory a  day,  he  was  n't  going  back  to  the  Rooms  before 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  AN  ENCOUNTER   153 

the  last  coup  had  been  played.  He'd  give  himse){  no 
chance  of  losing  what  he'd  won.  In  fact,  he'd  make 
assurance  quite  sure  and  be  a  little  late.  He  was  —  but 
Mrs.  Gerald  was  n't  in  the  Atrium.  "The  Opera  is  n't 
over  yet,  monsieur,"  Charles  was  told.  He  kicked  him- 
self for  not  remembering  that  on  theatre  or  opera  nights 
play  does  n't  cease  till  the  audience  is  libera tt;d.  He'd 
better  go  in  and  look  for  his  hostess.  Aftej'  all,  he 
need  n't  play. 

There  she  was.  The  pile  of  gold  in  front  of  %er  was 
about  the  same  size  as  it  had  been  all  day;  tie  only 
thing  that  seemed  to  have  shrunk  was  the  player  herself. 
She  seemed  to  have  lessened  with  fatigue.  She  saw 
Charles,  and  beckoned  to  him.  "Look  here,"  she  said, 
"the  last  dozen  has  n't  been  up  for  fifteen  times.  Is  n't 
that  your  game?   Don't  you  want  to  play  on  it  now.'*" 

"Thanks,  but  I  won't  play,"  Charles  answered. 

With  the  next  roll  of  the  ball,  nineteen  in  the  second 
dozen  appeared;  with  the  next,  zero;  and  then  seven; 
and  Charles  congratulated  himself  that  he'd  paid  no 
attention  to  Mrs.  Gerald's  suggestion.  But  ought  n't  he 
to,  now,  though?  Wasn't  it  squandering  his  mercies 
not  to  make  something?  The  last  dozen  was  certain 
to  turn  up  in  a  coup  or  two,  surely.  Why  not  make  a 
day's  expenses? 

The  ball  was  rolling.  Hastily  collecting  five  louis 
from  the  mass  in  his  pocket,  he  handed  it  to  the  croupier.' 
"Derniere  douzaine"  he  announced. 

"Sept  rouge  impair  et  manque."  Seven,  a  second 
time! 

Charles  did  n't  like  it,  but  after  all  he  should  n't 


154  CAVIARE 

expect  the  desired  chanc©  to  turn  up  at  the  first  time  of 
asking.   This  time  fifteen  louis. 

Number  seventeen  appeared. 

So  much  the  worse  —  but  so  much  the  better,  as  he 
was  playijUg,  when  the  last  dozen  did  arrive.  A  thou- 
sand-frane  note  was  his  next  stake.  "  Tout  va  au  billet" 
the  croupiers  called,  and  Mrs.  Gerald  looked  up  and 
smiled. 

Zero  again.  Charles  remembered  having  sworn 
mildly  under  his  breath  —  swearing  not  at  the  loss  of  the 
money,  !but  at  his  having  played  at  all  when  he  had  so 
definitely  decided  not  to.  Two  notes  the  next  time  — 
and  again  disappointment:  Seven!  Rapidly  calculating 
he  found  he'd  lost  three  thousand  four  hundred  francs. 
Not  so  bad,  considering  how  much  he  was  still  to  the 
good.  But  he  was  in  it  now,  and  he'd  have  to  win  or 
break. 

The  maximum  on  a  dozen  is  three  thousand  francs, 
and  that  was  the  sum  that  Charles  next  staked,  putting 
at  the  same  time  all  that  remained  in  his  pocket  on 
passe,  the  numbers  from  nineteen  to  thirty-six.  He 
thought  himself  rather  clever  in  doing  this.  The  last 
dozen  covers  the  numbers  from  twenty-five  to  thirty- 
six.  If  it  turned  up  he'd  win  in  both  places,  — if  it 
did  n't,  well,  perhaps  the  stake  on  passe  would  give  him 
another  chance.  For  with  its  aid  he  was  covering  a 
further  six  numbers.  Supposing  that  a  number  between 
nineteen  and  twenty-four  appeared  he'd  lose  on  the 
dozen,  but  he'd  win  sixty -three  louis  on  passe.  That 
would  make  his  capital  one  hundred  and  twenty-six 
louis  —  short  of  the  biggest  stake  allowed  —  but  still 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  AN  ENCOUNTER   155 

sufficient,  if  it  all  went  on  the  last  dozen  and  was  success- 
ful, to  retrieve  not  all  but  most  of  his  losses. 

"Premier  rouge  impair  et  manque"  Number  one  had 
appeared,  and  Charles  had  lost  all  his  winnings  except 
for  some  small  change  and  what  he  had  paid  for  his 
sister's  stole  and  his  supper.  "Something  gained,  any- 
how," he  said  to  himself  philosophically. 

The  last  three  coups  were  now  announced :  "  Messieurs^ 
les  trois  derniers."  Charles  had  no  longer  any  interest 
in  the  game;  he  did  n't  even  watch  Mrs.  Gerald,  who 
was  staking  religiously  up  to  the  very  end. 

And  twenty-seven  appeared  —  twenty-seven  in  the 
last  dozen;  and  it  was  followed  by  twenty -five;  and  in 
the  last  coup  of  all  came  thirty-six! 

Mrs.  Gerald  jumped  up.  "Come  along.  Let's  get 
our  things  before  the  rush.  I've  won  seven  louis."  And, 
with  a  rattling  of  bangles  and  of  gold  purses  she  hurried 
Charles  to  the  Atrium. 

But  all  this  had  happened  several  years  ago. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

COLD   FEET 

THERE  was  a  very  lengthy  digression  at  the  end 
of  the  last  chapter.  It  did  not  take  Charles  so 
long  to  think  of  all  these  things  as  it  has  taken 
me  to  tell  them.  His  "bon  cigare"  was  finished.  He 
paid  his  bill  —  turned  his  back  on  the  Casino,  and  went 
for  a  walk.  To  tell  the  truth,  although  he  assured  him- 
self that  he  did  n't  really  care  what  happened  to  the 
last  two  hundred  pounds  he  was  going  to  risk  at  the 
game  he  had  loved  for  so  many  years,  yet  he  did  have  a 
feeling  of  dread.  He  was  frank  with  himself,-  and  he 
knew  that  if  he  went  in  and  lost,  he  would  come  out 
again  very  depressed.  He  was  n't  likely  to  have  many 
hundreds  of  pounds  to  spend  in  amusement  for  many 
years  to  come.  While  the  billets  remained  in  his  pocket 
he  had  them;  they  represented  so  much  potential  com- 
fort —  and  more  than  comfort.  When  they  were  gone 
he'd  be  down  to  the  level  of  Sir  Peter  Bain:  hotels 
where  one  paid  so  much  a  day,  —  everything  included 
but  comfort,  —  cheap  meals,  omnibuses,  second-class 
tickets.  Perhaps  he  exaggerated.  Anyhow,  he  felt  like 
postponing  the  ordeal.  He  went  up  to  his  room  (only 
across  the  square:  the  Monte  Carlo  that  matters  is  only 
a  village,  after  all),  filled  his  cigarette-case,  and  then 
walked  up  through  the  gardens  and  went  in  and  ex- 
changed greetings  with  Madame  Aubanel  at  the  Prin- 


COLD   FEET  157 

cesse;  then  he  strolled  on  towards  Mentone,  spending 
a  few  minutes  looking  at  the  contents  of  the  shop  where 
Bain  had  found  the  pictures.  There  was  no  such  luck 
for  him.  Such  treasures  might  be  there,  but  he  had  n't 
the  knowledge  to  pick  them  out.  And  that  reminded 
him.  Why  not  walk  to  Mentone?  It  would  do  him 
good.   He  could  look  up  Bain  on  the  way. 

"Yes,  Sir  Bain,  he  is  in,"  the  ItaUan  porter  answered. 
"In  dining-room  with  his  two  friends." 

Charles  went  in.  This  hotel  that  Bain  had  selected 
was  about  two  miles  away  from  Monte  Carlo,  but  it 
might  have  been  a  hundred.  Oh,  how  the  atmosphere 
was  different  —  and  the  people !  In  one  corner  of  the 
dining-room  sat  a  young  English  couple  —  obviously  on 
their  honeymoon;  in  another  an  EngUsh  clergyman 
with  a  couple  of  vicarage  ladies;  there  an  elderly  lady 
sat  with  an  antimacassar  carefully  arranged  round  her 
neck,  —  or  it  looked  like  an  antimacassar,  —  and  at  a 
long  table  was  a  whole  Italian  family  at  whose  apparel 
and  general  appearance  imagination  boggles.  Bain  and 
his  friends  were  near  a  window.  Bain  had  a  new  suit  on, 
and  looked  very  neat  and  brushed  up  —  he  also  looked 
worn-out.  Next  to  him  sat  a  big  man  —  an  American, 
an  American  novelist,  it  appeared  afterwards.  A  long, 
loose-jointed  individual.  And  on  his  other  side  was 
an  old  young  man  with  an  eyeglass  —  an  unfortun- 
ate possession,  because  if  there  was  one  thing  more 
than  another  Charles  disliked  in  his  fellows  it  was  the 
wearing  of  a  monocle.  Naturally,  as  he  wore  one  him- 
self. It  connoted  in  his  mind  all  the  affectations  pos- 
sible to  man.  He  agreed  with  a  certain  negroid  jour- 


158  CAVIARE 

nalist:  it  was  impossible  to  wear  an  eyeglass  and  to  be 
sincere. 

Charles  had  arrived  just  in  time  to  put  an  end  to  a 
heated,  a  troubled  argument.  He  supplied  the  solution. 
The  others  had  arrived  from  Genoa  that  morning.  The 
old  young  man  had  been  assisting  at  the  American 
novelist's  first  glimpse  of  Italy.  Now  they  both  wanted 
to  go  into  Monte  Carlo.  Not  to  play  —  of  course  —  but 
to  look  at  it.  Bain,  on  the  other  hand,  wanted  to  go  to 
Mentone.  Like  Charles,  he  thought  exercise  would  be 
good  for  him.  Charles  did  n't  know  him  sufficiently  well 
to  realise  that  if  the  others  had  wanted  to  go  to  Mentone, 
he'd  have  wanted  to  visit  Monte  Carlo.  A  charming 
mind,  but  naturally  perverse! 

Charles,  then,  was  to  accompany  Bain  to  Mentone; 
the  others  could  please  themselves. 

An  admirable  place,  Mentone,  but  rather  full  of  the 
(comparatively)  indigent  invalid.  One  should  visit  it 
before  Nice  and  before  Monte  Carlo  —  and  even  then  it 
is  best  to  see  it  not  very  long  after  sunrise,  before  its 
visitors  appear.  The  inhabitants  are  like  the  place;  they 
fit  into  the  picture.  They  are  n't  German.  Its  beauty  is 
different  from  that  of  Monte  Carlo,  and  far,  far  greater 
than  that  of  Nice.  It  is  intimate  and  romantic.  It  makes 
the  most  exquisite  piece  of  stage  scenery  in  the  world. 
Let  me  tell  you  that,  if  you  have  n't  much  tinie  to  spare 
from  Monte  Carlo  and  only  drive  over  for  the  afternoon 
to  Mentone  in  order  to  avoid  the  Rooms  when  they  are 
at  their  fullest,  there  are  two  things  you  must  not  miss 
doing.  In  the  first  place,  walk  to  the  end  of  the  break- 


COLD   FEET  159 

water  and  look  at  the  old  town  therefrom,  noting  the 
terraced  houses,  built  up  one  on  top  of  another,  that 
Mr.  Maresco  Pearce  has  saved  in  his  water-colours 
from  ultimate  oblivion  —  for  they  '11  come  down  one 
day,  I  suppose;  and  then  go  up  to  the  English  cem- 
etery and  enjoy  one  of  the  most  beautiful  views  in  the 
world. 

But  I  am  not  writing  a  guide-book.  I  have,  however, 
the  slight  justification  that  Charles  and  Bain  did  both 
these  things;  and  then  they  thought  of  tea.  "Let's  go 
and  have  it  at  Cap  Martin  —  at  the  big  hotel,"  Bain 
suggested.  "It  costs  no  more  than  tea  here,  and  one 
gets  that  fine  view  from  the  terrace." 

It  was  evident  that  Charles  was  not  to  encounter  the 
Goddess  of  Chance  that  afternoon,  and,  smiling  at  the 
second  half  of  Bain's  sentence,  he  willingly  assented. 
Later  on  he  learnt  that  his  new  friend's  apparent  pre- 
occupation with  the  cost  of  things  was  a  pose,  a  sort  of 
pose.  There  had  been  a  time  when  he  had  had  to  count 
every  penny.  "  It 's  no  use  giving  Peter  any  bigger  allow- 
ance," his  father  had  said;  "he'll  only  spend  it  in  pict- 
ures." And  he  was  right.  He  did  spend  every  penny  he 
could  save  on  pictures.  Walking  rather  than  taking  an 
omnibus,  doing  without  proper  meals,  he  learnt  in  that 
best  of  all  schools  how  unnecessary  were  most  luxuries 
and  how  easily  one  could  dispense  with  some  necessa- 
ries. But  mean  —  well,  I  used  the  word  a  little  while 
back,  but  I  did  n't  intend  that  it  should  be  taken  liter- 
ally. He  would  spend  money  cheerfully  enough  —  on 
the  things  that  were  worth  while.  Primarily  they  were  a 
Manet,  a  Velasquez,  a  Cuyp  —  for  examples;  secondarily. 


i6o  CAVIARE 

on  the  beautifying  of  the  palace  in  which  he  lived  —  and 
that  not  for  himself,  but  for  some  near  posterity;  thirdly, 
in  one  way  or  another  on  his  friends.  Mean !  His  was  the 
real  generosity.  But  even  while  his  purse  and  his  time 
and  his  energy  were  at  everyone's  disposal,  he  continued 
out  of  mere  perversity  to  assist  the  legend  of  his  mean- 
ness. I  doubt  whether  in  such  matters  his  left  hand  did 
know  what  his  right  hand  had  done.  And  when  success 
and  honours  came  he  remained  exactly  as  he  was.  He 
would  go  from  the  palace  of  a  prince  (his  own  had 
greater  treasures)  with  perfect  happiness  to  the  one- 
room  lodging  of  some  friend  in  Bloomsbury,  or  even 
to  a  villa.  Yes,  his  own  house  was  a  residence  out  of 
the  Thousand  and  One  Nights.  The  hall  seemed  to 
be  built  of  rare  marbles,  and  then  one  saw  a  Paolo 
Ucello  on  the  wall,  and  on  the  stairs  a  Sargent,  —  the 
gift  of  a  few  Carburghians  more  grateful  than  their 
fellows.  In  the  rooms  were  Grecos  and  Goyas,  Monets 
and  Rembrandts,  and  curious  jade  figures  and  Chinese 
screens.  .  .  . 

But  they  were  at  the  hotel. 

If  Monte  Carlo  is  a  part  of  hell,  and  Mentone  a  cross 
between  paradise  and  a  sanatorium,  the  large  building 
that  in  effect  makes  a  little  village  all  by  itself  at  the 
end  of  Cap  Martin  is  a  slice  equally  compounded  of 
South  Belgravia  and  the  Tottenham  Court  Road.  The 
English  abound  there  —  the  very  respectable  English. 
The  postal  address  is  "pres  Menton":  no  one  could 
object  to  that !  You  feel  that  it  is  all  very  safe.  England 
has  this  way  of  seizing  strategical  positions.  The  Cap 
Martin  Hotel  is  a  sort  of  moral  Gibraltar.    Whatever 


COLD   FEET  i6i 

may  happen  on  the  other  side  of  the  Bay,  it  at  least  is 
solid  for  the  conventions. 

Charles  was  not  very  much  amused  by  finding  himself 
in  this  stronghold:  he  was  afraid  he  might  be  pounced 
upon  by  some  dowager  friend  of  his  —  and  sure  enough 
he  was.  The  waiter  had  brought  the  tea,  and  they  were 
quietly  drinking  it,  when  they  were  joined  by  a  well- 
preserved  woman  of  say  sixty,  who  had  no  sort  of  hesita- 
tion about  breaking  into  their  conversation.  She  told 
Sir  Peter  that  she  had  known  Charles  since  he  was  "that 
high,"  and  she  made  up  for  her  longevity  by  the  particu- 
larity of  her  questions.  Were  they  together?  When  did 
Charles  come?  She  would  obviously  have  liked  to  ask 
exactly  who  Sir  Peter  was.  Evidently,  she  had  n't  the 
slightest  idea.  She'd  look  him  up  in  that  volume  with- 
out which  she  never  travelled;  such  people  don't  carry  a 
"Who's  Who."  Their  standards  do  not  usually  include 
achievement. 

Then,  having  extracted  all  the  facts  she  could,  she 
turned  to  giving  her  own  and  the  news  of  the  hotel.  The 
truth  is,  she  was  a  sad  case  of  intelligence  gone  to  seed. 
Quite  reasonable  once,  no  fool,  she  had  married  one  of 
Charles's  father's  neighbours,  and  he  had  altered  her 
slowly  into  a  snob,  quickly  into  a  parrot.  To-day,  the 
snob  and  the  parrot  battled  together  for  mastery  behind 
that  glittering  and  middle-aged  fagade.  What  did  they 
think?  Who  did  they  think  had  had  the  effrontery  to 
come  to  the  hotel  yesterday?  She  named  a  certain  Liberal 
statesman  not  at  the  moment  loved  by  snobs,  parrots, 
and  the  rich.  "  It 's  extraordinary  what  some  people  will 
do.  You'd  have  thought  he'd  have  kept  away  from  here." 


i62  CAVIARE 

"But  why  should  he?  What's  the  poor  man  done?" 
Charles  asked  languidly. 

Followed  an  exposition,  an  exposition  that  made  little 
clear.  The  nearest  Charles  could  get  to  the  root  of  the 
matter  was  that,  having  stuck  at  nothing  in  his  attempt 
to  rob  the  rich  and  to  pamper  and  pauperise  the  poor, 
the  Liberal  statesman  should  know  better  than  to  come 
among  honest  and  Conservative  people.  Not  everyone, 
however,  was  willing  to  sit  down  under  this  outrage.  She 
was  glad  to  say  that  two  friends  of  hers  had  already 
"requested"  the  manager  of  the  restaurant  to  move 
their  table,  since  they  were  offended  at  their  propinquity 
to  this  black  sheep.  Others  were  to  do  the  same.  Charles, 
who  in  certain  directions  had  an  extreme  intellectual  lazi- 
ness and  cared  very  little  for  politics,  was  content  to  leaveit 
at  that.  Nor  was  Bain  a  politician.  Still,  he  found  him- 
self glad  that  his  American  protege  was  not  with  them. 

Left  alone  at  last,  they  walked  slowly  back  by  the 
shore-path  toward  Monte  Carlo,  and,  breaking  the  laws 
of  trespass,  gained  the  Riva  Bella. 

"I  had  thought  of  going  back  to-night,"  Charles  said, 
as  they  parted  at  the  door.  "I  only  came  down  this 
time  to  settle  up  some  business,  but  I  shan't  go  now, 
anyhow  till  to-morrow,  and  perhaps  not  then.  Why 
don't  you  come  over  and  lunch?  We'll  go  up  to  La 
Turbie,  if  you  like." 

"I'll  come,"  Bain  answered;  "but  please  give  me  the 
simplest  lunch."  It  was  either  one  of  his  affectations  or 
else  a  very  real  souvenir  of  his  days  of  hunger  that  he 
talked  always  as  if  his  inside  was  on  the  verge  of  serious 
rebellion. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  WHICH  CHARLES  DINES,  AND    LETS  I  DARE  NOT  WAIT 
UPON   I    WOULD 

BY  all  the  laws  that  govern  the  visitor's  life  in 
Monte  Carlo,  Charles  ought  to  have  gone  that 
evening  into  the  Rooms.  He  did  n't;  he  did  n't 
even  go  up  the  steps.  He  dined  by  himself,  and  then 
sat  in  the  large  hall  of  the  Paris  reading  the  belated 
second-rate  sporting  papers  which,  very  likely  with 
justice,  the  management  appears  to  think  sufficient  for 
the  taste  and  intelligence  of  its  patrons.  The  truth  was, 
he  had  n't  got  rid  of  his  nervousness,  his  fear.  He  had 
still  a  hunch  about  his  playing.  There  was  an  odd  feeling 
about  his  stomach,  as  when  he  was  a  boy.  But  he  read 
a  lot  of  quite  inaccurate  information  about  the  "mar- 
kets" and  the  so-called  favourites  for  the  Lincoln  and 
the  National,  and  then  wrote  to  his  lawyer  in  Lincoln's 
Inn  asking  him  to  see  him  at  quarter-past  ten  on  Wed- 
nesday morning  next,  as  he  wanted  to  look  into  the 
exact  position  of  his  affairs,  for  reasons  which  he  did  not 
specify.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  to  choose  the  very 
day  of  his  departure  for  America  for  this  interview.  If 
he  had  to  catch  the  midday  train,  it  was  certain  that  it 
could  n't  be  unduly  protracted;  and  having  got  the 
information  he  wanted,  and  having  more  or  less  shat- 
tered the  equanimity  of  the  excellent  Mr.   Pyeman 


i64  CAVIARE 

(Pyeman,  Venables  and  Spalding,  of  course),  he  could 
bolt  for  his  train. 

Then  he  lay  back,  smoked  his  cigar,  and  watched 
with  lazy  inattention  his  fellow  guests.  He  had  dined 
early,  so  he  was  in  time  to  see  the  gradual  emptying  of 
that  restaurant  which  is  perhaps  the  smartest  and  in 
some  ways  certainly  the  best  —  the  best  if  they  think  it 
worth  while  to  take  trouble  for  you  —  in  all  that  world 
that  amuses  itself.  You  could  almost  tell  what  the 
people  were  by  watching  them.  And  what  a  mixture! 
That  very  waddling  gentleman  with  the  black  mustache, 
whose  clothes  fitted  him  too  well,  was  a  rapidly  enriched 
South  African  millionaire  —  the  richest  Anglo- Alien  we 
have.  The  women  with  him  were  his  wife  and  his  two 
daughters.  The  two  men  were  Gentile  parasites,  far  less 
admirable  than  their  host.  Followed  an  English  peer. 
Charles  wondered  whether  he  or  the  millionaire  was  the 
least  creditable  representative  of  the  Empire.  He  was 
alone,  and  he  had  evidently  been  drowning  his  cares  — 
and  now  he  would  lose  more  of  the  money  that  he 
had  n't  got.  And  cheerful  people  came  who  were  enjoying 
Monte  Carlo  as  it  should  be  enjoyed.  .  .  . 

Charles  went  to  bed.  He  did  n't  think  he  wanted  to 
see  all  these  people  again  that  evening,  or  their  like. 
If  he  went  into  the  Rooms  he'd  come  across  them  for 
sure,  and  he  felt  they  'd  irritate  him  and  put  him  off  his 
game.   More  and  mere  timidity. 

It  would  be  well,  however,  before  going  to  bed, 
Charles  thought,  to  arrange  his  things  for  to-morrow's 
play.  If  he  was  to  go  down  he  would  do  so  after  making 
every  possible  preparation  for  success.   Then  he  would 


LETTING  I  DARE  NOT  WAIT  UPON  I  WOULD  165 

not  have  to  reproach  himself.  He  knew  —  as  well  as 
you  and  I  do  —  that  the  chances  in  roulette  are  entirely 
fortuitous,  but  why  not  help  chance  as  much  as  possible? 
He  might  so  easily  lose  all  his  money  in  five  coups  —  in 
five  minutes,  say;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  might  have 
a  run  of  luck,  and  it  behoved  him  to  prepare  to  make  it 
welcome.  Nothing  he  knew  was  more  irritating  than, 
yielding  to  sudden  impulse,  to  depart  from  the  pro- 
gramme laid  down  —  and  to  lose.  To  lose  after  consid- 
eration was  all  in  the  day's  work;  but  to  lose  because  of 
some  whim  —  no,  that  made  for  depression.  Charles's 
philosophy  on  the  matter  was  a  good  deal  confused.  He 
could  n't  have  formulated  any  very  complete  or  satis- 
factory set  of  rules.  He  knew  it  was  all  chance,  but 
still  .  .  . 

There  were  two  things  about  which  he  was  determined. 
He  would  play  no  other  game  than  that  he  had  decided 
on  earlier  in  the  day  at  lunch.  He  had  two  hundred  and 
fifty  louis.  He'd  play  on  the  two-to-one  chances,  the 
dozens  and  the  columns,  and  beginning  with  a  stake  of 
ten  louis  he'd  double  up  in  case  of  failure  till  the  fifth 
coup.  Then  his  stake  would  be  a  hundred  louis.  If  he 
lost,  so  much  the  worse.  He'd  put  his  things  together, 
keep  his  luncheon  engagement  with  Bain,  and  catch  the 
evening  train.  That  was  his  first  determination.  The 
second  dealt  with  what  should  happen  if  he  were  success- 
ful. If  he  had  two  or  three  winning  coups  his  capital 
would  be  increased  to  at  least  three  hundred  louis.  What- 
ever luck  he  had  he  would  not  play  with  more  than 
three  hundred.  Each  addition  to  his  capital  that  brought 
it  above  three  hundred  louis  should  be  withdrawn,  put 


i66  CAVIARE 

aside,  should  go  back  with  him  to  London.  In  fact,  to 
put  it  briefly,  he  was  willing  to  back  himself  to  the  tune 
of  two  hundred  pounds,  not  to  lose  five  times  running. 
If  he  did,  he'd  quit.  Garcia  (wasn't  it?)  made  some 
millions  of  francs  by  backing  himself  not  to  lose  three 
times  running  —  but,  if  I  remember  V,  B.'s  book  aright, 
he  was  playing  on  the  even  chances,  and  so  did  n't  really 
run  more  risk  than  Charles  proposed. 

Charles's  programme  included  another,  a  very  prac- 
tical, precaution.  It  is  true  that  he  had  decided,  sworn 
to  himself,  not  to  lose  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty 
louis  —  or  three  hundred,  if  he  won  fifty  to  begin  with. 
But  flesh  is  weak.  If  one  has  the  money  in  one's  pocket, 
it  is  so  easy  to  humbug  oneself  into  thinking  that  in  all 
the  circumstances  it  is  the  stronger  thing  to  abandon 
one's  resolves  and  to  follow  one's  star  —  or  some  such 
rot  as  that.  It  was  so  he  lost  all  his  winnings  on  the  day 
that  Mrs.  Gerald  kept  him  hanging  about.  He  had 
made  provision  against  such  foolishness.  In  his  trunk 
were  three  money-boxes  carefully  contrived  to  receive 
either  notes  or  gold,  and  not  till  they  were  unlocked  to 
give  them  forth.  One  of  them  went  easily  into  his  breast 
pocket.  As  he  won  —  ah,  if  he  won !  —  each  sum  above 
the  three  hundred  louis  would  be  dropped  there  and 
then  into  the  box.  It  would  stop  in  the  box  till  he  got  to 
London.  To  ensure  this,  he  folded  the  small  and  intri- 
cate key  in  a  piece  of  paper,  placed  it  in  an  envelope, 
and  addressed  it  to  himself  at  his  club.  Ringing  for  a 
chasseur,  he  sent  the  package  at  once  to  the  post. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A   LITTLE   PLAY,    BREAKFAST,    AND   A    JUSTIFICATION   OF 

CONNOISSEURSHIP 

CHARLES  had  the  next  morning  when  he  woke 
an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  had  been  dis- 
loyal to  his  love  for  Alison,  The  feeling  was 
natural  and  perhaps  justified.  He  had  n't  thought  of  her 
as  much  as  he  should.  But,  then,  on  the  other  hand,  he 
had  been  doing  things  and  seeing  people,  been  busy,  in 
fact;  and,  anyhow,  his  were  at  the  most  errors  of  omis- 
sion. It  could  not  be  said  that  anyone  else  had  even  for 
one  second  taken  her  place  in  his  heart.  Why,  he  had  n't 
spoken  to  a  woman  —  save  his  ancient  friend  at  Cap 
Martin  —  since  he  left  Paris.  He  had  n't  even  come 
across  the  chambermaid.  And  was  n't  he  all  the  time 
working  for  her?  No —  perhaps  not  that  exactly,  but  at 
least  sloughing  the  skin  of  his  old  habits  and  interests  in 
preparation  for  such  work.  It  was  Friday :  that  evening 
he'd  have  known  her  for  a  week. 

The  day  was  one  of  those  on  which  Monte  Carlo 
looked  its  very  best.  Cap  Martin  stretched  out  into  an 
azure,  untroubled  sea;  one's  eyes  followed  with  delight 
the  exquisite  shades  and  contours  of  the  hills  and  moun- 
tains that  reached  in  one  unbroken  line  from  Bordighera 
to  Mont  Agel.  At  one's  back,  the  water  in  the  harbour 
was  a  deep  blue;  Monaco  lay  basking  beneath  the  lower- 
ing Tete  de  Chien  just  as  on  that  day  of  which  Tcnny- 


i68  CAVIARE 

son  wrote.  Charles  grew  sentimental.  He  wished  he 
didjn't  have  to  go  into  the  damned  Casino;  he  wished  he 
could  telephone  to  Bain  to  meet  him  at  La  Turbie  at 
one,  and  that  he  could  till  then  lie  amid  olive  trees  look- 
ing at  the  sky,  thinking  of  Alison.  But  he  must  get  on 
with  his  programme  —  and  first  of  all  he  must  get 
shaved.  The  good  Bowles  had  not  yet  received  his 
notice. 

Throwing  his  windows  wide  open,  Charles  stepped  out 
onto  his  balcony.  It  was  nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  already 
there  was  a  steady  stream  of  people  ascending  the 
Casino  steps.  He  thought  it  indecent.  There  were  plenty 
of  people  —  even  people  he  knew  —  who  would  as 
regularly  as  clockwork  join  the  crowd  at  the  doors  of  the 
gaming-rooms  a  few  minutes  before  they  opened.  As 
they  were  flung  wide  there  would  be  a  rush  (Charles  had 
seen  it  once  —  once  was  enough),  and  old  men,  old 
women,  young  men  on  furlough,  the  five-franc  regulars, 
visitors  from  the  North  who  had  to  prove  the  worth  of 
their  systems  by  one  week's  continual  play  —  all  would 
run  awkwardly  across  the  polished  floor  in  the  hope  of 
securing  a  seat.  He  could  see  it  all.  They  'd  secure  their 
places  with  their  pencils,  their  cloak-room  checks  — 
and  then  they'd  walk  about  and  pretend  not  to  have 
hurried.  And  at  each  table  the  money  would  be  counted 
out  —  and  after  a  time  play  would  begin.  To  go  so 
early  might  be  convenient;  certainly  it  was  convenient 
to  have  a  seat.  But  it  was  n't  amusing  —  and  luckily 
(although  that  made  no  difference  to  Charles),  it  was  n't 
smart. 

Charles's  appointment  with  Bain  was  n't  till  the 


A   JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  169 

eleven-fifty  train.  He  would  have  liked  to  spin  out  the 
few  things  he  had  to  do  till  then.  But  he  began  to  feel 
that  he  was  playing  a  coward's  part;  that  as  he  had  to 
play,  it  was  imbecile  to  put  it  off  any  longer.  He  tried 
to  understand,  to  analyse,  his  hesitations.  In  his  ex- 
perience they  were  so  new.  Why,  indeed,  should  he 
hesitate? 

In  the  bureau  to  which  Charles  had  to  go  to  secure  his 
ticket  of  entry  they  went,  as  they  always  do,  through  the 
regular  routine.  He  knew  all  the  employees  and  they  all 
knew  him ;  but  they  pretended  to  believe  that  he  might 
be  some  absolute  stranger,  and  asked  for  some  actual 
piece  of  identification,  and  then  insisted  on  turning  him 
up  in  various  books.  Ultimately,  of  course,  he  was  given 
the  white  ticket  which  is  only  allowed  to  the  habitue, 
and  which  would  admit  him  for  a  month  without  further 
question.   It  carried  other  advantages. 

The  doorkeepers  clipped  Charles's  ticket  and  greeted 
him  with  respect.  He  was  so  cheerful  always;  they 
were  always  pleased  to  see  him  again.  Besides,  he  came 
back  so  regularly.  And  nothing  disagreeable  ever  hap- 
pened to  him  or  to  his  friends.  He  entered :  the  atmo- 
sphere—  although  the  rooms  had  hardly  been  opened 
an  hour  —  hit  him  in  the  face.  "What  is  it?"  someone 
asked  a  witty  lady;  "what  is  the  dominant  perfume  in 
that  extraordinary  melange?"  "Oh,  I  don't  know,"  she 
answered;  "I  think  I'd  call  it  esprit  de  corps." 

Charles  looked  at  his  cuff.  He'd  written  down  there 
five  numbers,  all  of  them  under  four.  They  were  the 
fruit  of  his  morning's  sentimentality.  He'd  actually 
taken  Alison's  name  —  Alison:  A-1-i-s-o-n  —  and  he'd 


170  CAVIARE 

divided  the  letters  of  the  alphabet  into  three  parts: 
A  to  I,  J  to  R,  S  to  Z,  and  then  he  'd  reckoned  in  which 
third  each  letter  would  fall.  He'd  written  down  the  let- 
ters, and  against  them  the  numbers  —  A  against  1 ; 
L  against  2;  and  so  on.  The  result  was,  1,  2,  1,  3,  2,  2. 
He  walked  to  the  table  that  was  nearest  to  him,  and  put 
his  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  had  change  —  and  inci- 
dentally, let  me  explain,  he  had  less  than  the  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  louis  he  'd  reckoned  on,  for  he  'd  paid  for 
his  lunch  and  his  dinner  of  yesterday,  so  that  he  was  three 
louis  "shy,"  as  they  say  in  New  York.  Three  louis  more 
to  make  up  before  he'd  have  the  desired  three  hundred. 

The  numbers  on  his  cuff  showed  that  his  first  stake 
was  to  be  on  the  first  dozen.  He  took  out  ten  louis  and 
handed  it  over  the  shoulders  of  some  rather  stuffy 
people  to  the  croupier  at  the  end  of  the  table.  It  was  just 
in  time.  The  ball  was  rolling,  rien  ne  va  plus  had  been 
called.  Charles  had  an  absurd  anxiety  —  as  well  he 
might,  the  stuffy  people  thought,  for  the  ten  louis  were 
raked  away. 

This  gambling  was  altogether  too  wearing,  Charles 
felt  —  Charles  who  had  seen  his  maximums  go  again 
and  again  where  this  paltry  ten  louis  had  gone,  and  had 
never  turned  a  hair.  His  next  stake  was  twenty  louis, 
and  he  had  to  change  a  five-hundred-franc  note.  The 
stuffy  people  were  full  of  solicitude.  The  twenty  louis 
went  on  the  second  dozen.  Charles  controlled  his  emo- 
tion. He  had  a  ridiculous  desire,  a  disproportionate 
desire,  not  to  lose  five  times  running,  not  to  finish  the 
whole  thing  at  once.  Vingt  —  twenty.  The  stuffy  people 
were  truly  excited.  Charles  took  sixty  louis  —  one  note 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  171 

and  thirty -five  louis  in  gold  —  from  the  croupier's 
hand.  He  was  thirty  louis  to  the  good:  now  he  had  two 
hundred  and  seventy-seven.  But  the  thing  had  to  be 
repeated.  He  wished  he  knew  whether  he  ought  to  start 
afresh  with  Alison's  name  from  the  beginning,  or 
whether  he  should  go  on  with  the  sequence;  whether, 
that  is  to  say,  he  should  start  next  all  over  again  with 
the  first  number  in  the  sequence.  He  determined  on  the 
first  course.  His  ten  louis  went  on  the  first  dozen  —  and 
he  won.  That  made  two  hundred  and  ninety-seven  louis 
in  hand.  If  he  could  only  win  once  more  he  would  at 
least  have  saved  something  from  the  wreck  —  if  wreck 
came.  Ten  louis  again  on  the  first  dozen,  and  again  it 
won.  The  weight  was  lifted  from  his  spirit:  he  had  now 
in  his  pocket  three  hundred  and  seventeen  louis.  Seven- 
teen louis  were  pure  gain.  That  was  enough  for  the 
morning  —  even  though  it  was  n't  in  any  case  neces- 
sary for  him  to  go  off  to  meet  Sir  Peter  Bain.  It  was  true 
his  heart  was  lightened,  but  nevertheless  he'd  gladly 
get  outside  into  the  sunshine.  There  was  just  time  to 
step  across  to  the  Paris,  leave  his  money,  and  go  to  the 
funicular  railway. 

At  the  hotel  seventeen  louis  were  carefully  dropped 
into  the  box.  At  least  now  he  could  lose  no  more  on  this 
journey  South  than  two  hundred  and  thirty-three  louis. 
He  felt  encouraged. 

Bain's  little  laugh  greeted  Charles  at  the  funicular 
terminus.  "  Well,  what  have  you  been  doing?  Have  you 
lost  a  great  deal?"  Bain  had  to  ask  the  usual  question, 
and  it  was  characteristic  of  him  to  put  it  in  its  most 


172  CAVIARE 

pessimistic  form.  One  is  assured  that  there  exists  in 
Monte  Carlo  a  whole  colony  of  respectable  people  — 
English,  American,  French,  German,  Italian  —  who 
never  want  news  of  the  kind,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
because  they  studiously  go  through  the  season  pretend- 
ing that  the  gambling  is  an  interest  quite  outside  of  the 
ordinary  life  of  the  place,  something  it  is  bad  taste  to 
mention.  "Oh  yes,  there  was  gambling;  but  we  had 
nothing  to  do  with  it,"  they  say  when  they  come  home. 
At  their  luncheon  and  tea  parties  you  never  hear  any 
talk  of  systems,  or  of  runs,  or  So-and-So's  great  win,  or 
of  his  cousin's  even  greater  loss.  A  monstrous  affecta- 
tion. Besides,  why  should  they  choose  Monte  Carlo? 
There  are  so  many  other  agreeable  places.  Monte  Carlo 
is  frankly  a  place  for  vicious  people,  or  for  the  occasional, 
pleasant  vices  of  people  at  other  times  virtuous.  It  owes 
most  of  its  butterfly,  its  iridescent  beauty  to  its  immor- 
ality.  Why  not  be  frank  about  it? 

But  however  impatient  Charles  might  be  at  the  ques- 
tion, he  had  to  answer  it  —  and  he  answered  it,  truth- 
fully as  it  happens,  but  according  to  convention.  The 
answer  always  comes  pat:  "I  haven't  played  much, 
but  I'm  a  bit  to  the  good  on  balance."  It  is  like  being 
asked  after  one's  health.  If  the  inquirer  is  a  friend  of 
the  heart  he  is  answered  truthfully;  otherwise  —  In 
the  South  one  always  says  that  one  is  "a  bit  to  the  good 
on  balance,"  and  one  always  fosters  sedulously  the  idea 
that  one  has  n't  played,  that  one  is  n't  playing,  much. 
"Oh,  but,  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  saw  you  staking  such  a  lot 
of  money  —  and  once  or  twice  you  won,  and  you  were 
paid  in  several  notes"  —  that  is  the  kind  of  thing  with 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  173 

which  ladies  are  apt  to  confound  one's  anxious  attempts 
to  show  that  one  is  n't  playing  this  year.  The  answer  is 
also  according  to  rule:  one  smiles  and  says:  "Yes,  I'd 
just  had  a  louis  on  a  number  that  turned  up,  and  I'd 
put  the  lot  on  a  dozen,  and  won  —  it  was  the  bank's 
money  I  was  risking,  of  course.  I  'd  never  play  that  way 
with  my  own  money:  I  have  n't  enough." 

Going  up  in  the  train,  Charles  won  five  francs  from 
Bain  —  and  refused  to  take  it.  It's  a  dead  easy  way  of 
making  money.  Let  me  explode  it  once  and  for  all. 
After  two  thirds  of  the  journey  up  to  La  Turbie  the  hill 
lessens  and  almost  ceases  —  and  then  the  road  seems  to 
dip  downwards.  You  draw  your  companion's  attention 
to  the  olive  trees  and  the  vines  and  the  mule  tracks,  and 
then  suddenly  you  say :  "  Hullo,  this  line  goes  down  over 
there.  That  seems  bad  engineering.  But  I  don't  suppose 
it  really  does:  it's  an  optical  illusion,  I  expect."  Your 
friend  replies  that  it  certainly  dips.  You  deny  it.  He 
persists.  You  offer  to  bet  five  francs  —  or  ten,  or 
twenty,  according  to  his  means.  When  you  get  to  La 
Turbie  you  prove  that  there  is  not  even  fiat  ground;  that 
what  you  have  both  spoken  of  as  a  dip  is  in  reality  merely 
the  lessening  of  the  steepness  of  the  hill.  Pardon,  gentle- 
men who  live  on  this  device,  that  I  have  given  it  away. 
Exercise  your  ingenuity  afresh. 

There  are  many  people  who,  going  to  Monte  Carlo, 
never  go  near  La  Turbie.  Theirs  is  a  great  loss.  They 
miss  a  view  unsurpassable  in  its  kind.  And  there  are 
people  who  go  up  to  La  Turbie  to  lunch,  but  who  never 
look  at  the  very  old-world  Italian  hilltop  village  which 
nestles  under  the  ruin  of  the  tower  Augustus  built.  Bain 


174  CAVIARE 

had  seen  so  many  Italian  villages  that  he  did  n't  want  to 
be  bothered,  but  Charles  insisted  that  they  should  visit 
everything  (like  tourists  —  and  perhaps  for  him  it  would 
be  the  last  time)  just  as  if  they  had  never  seen  it  before, 
the  while  their  lunch  was  being  prepared. 

"I've  ordered  a  plain  fried  mostelle  and  some  Vichy 
water  for  you,  Bain,  You  told  me  you  wanted  very  little 
and  that  quite  simple." 

"I  ought  n't  to  eat  even  that,"  Bain  answered;  "but 
then  I  need  n't  eat  any  dinner." 

At  table  Bain  fell  on  the  hors  d'oeuvres.  There  were 
certain  very  indigestible  preparations  of  shrimps  and 
button  mushrooms  covered  with  mayonnaise,  and  there 
were  prawns.  Charles  said  nothing.  You  can't  quarrel 
with  your  guest's  good  appetite.  For  himself  he  had 
ordered  a  langouste  Americaine.  It  came  —  and  at  the 
same  time  came  the  modest  mostelle  for  Bain. 
;  "  What 's  that  you ' ve  got  there?  It  looks  good,"  Bain 
asked. 

"It's  crayfish  —  and  I  ordered  it  for  myself  because 
I'm  hungry;  and  when  you're  hungry,  it's  the  best 
breakfast  dish  there  is.  It's  almost  too  rich,  though. 
They  always  put  such  an  awful  lot  of  things  in  the 
sauce." 

"Give  me  some  of  that;  after  all,  I  won't  have  any 
mostelle  —  if  you  don't  mind." 

"I  don't  mind  —  I'm  delighted.  There's  plenty  for 
two.  But  what  about  your  small  appetite  and  your 
bad  digestion?  Don't  blame  me  afterwards." 

"No,  I  won't.  Besides,  it's  ridiculous  to  come  to  a 
good  restaurant  and  only  to  have  the  kind  of  food  you 


A  JUSTIFICATION  OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  175 

can  get  in  your  own  house.  It's  a  waste.  I  will  have  a 
little  more  of  that  sauce.  What  I  never  can  understand 
is,  why  people  want  to  come  to  a  place  like  this  —  or  to 
the  restaurants  down  there"  —  he  indicated  Monte 
Carlo,  which  lay  beneath  them.  "Why,  I  know  a  man 
who 's  poor  and  very  fond  of  pictures,  and  yet  he  spends 
more  on  his  stomach  in  a  month  than  I  spend  in  a  year. 
I  tell  him,  if  only  he'd  be  sensible  and  eat  at  A.B.C. 
shops,  he  'd  save  so  much  money  that  he  could  have  all 
the  modern  pictures  he  wanted.  Still,  if  one  is  here  it's 
rich  food  one  ought  to  have.  I  can  get  fried  fish  at  the 
Riva  Bella." 

Charles  tried  to  explain  that  good  food  and  good  wine 
were  an  end  in  themselves.  Bain,  happily  mopping  up 
the  rich  sauce  of  the  crayfish  with  fragments  of  bread, 
refused  to  see  it.  Nor  would  he  drink  wine.  "  My  doctor 
says  I'd  better  not  —  unless  it's  champagne." 

The  agneau  de  lait  with  which  Charles  continued  his 
own  lunch  did  n't  look  exciting  enough  to  tempt  Bain. 
The  waiter  offered  him  some  early  peaches.  "I  would 
like  a  peach,"  he  said  —  and  he  ate  two.  Afterwards  he 
asked  what  they  cost,  and  nearly  fell  off  his  perch  when 
he  learnt. 

"I  did  n't  take  return  tickets,"  Bain  announced.  "I 
thought  we  might  walk  down  to  Monte"  —  he  had 
that  unhappy  trick  of  abbreviating  the  name  of  the 
place;  it  was  his  one  vulgarity. 

Such  a  plan  suited  Charles  down  to  the  ground,  but 
he  felt  it  was  his  duty,  that  anyhow  it  would  be  discreet, 
to  remind  Bain  of  the  facts:  "But  did  you  ever  do  it? 
I  have.  I  should  like  to  again  —  but,  after  all,  it's  only  a 


176  CAVIARE 

mule  track  when  it  is  n't  a  flight  of  irregular  steps.  I 
thought  you  told  me  you  had  to  take  great  care  not  to 
tire  yourself?  You'll  be  more  than  tired  when  you  get 
down." 

Bain  smiled  his  most  charming  smile.  "I  know,  but  I 
must  take  some  exercise  after  such  a  breakfast." 

The  path  from  La  Turbie  to  Monte  Carlo  takes  a  bit 
of  finding.  As  the  crow  flies  the  one  place  is  not,  I  sup- 
pose, more  than  a  mile  from  the  other,  but  they  are  in 
different  worlds.  The  kind  of  people  who  would  ordi- 
narily want  a  decent  road  use  the  expensive  funicular 
railway.  So  the  peasant  has  to  walk  —  for  the  best  of 
all  reasons,  that,  even  if  he  wanted  to,  he  could  n't  drive. 
He  walks,  either  alone  or  with  his  mule,  down  the  side 
of  those  mountains  that  fall  from  the  higher  Alps  into 
the  sea.  The  path  is  quite  primitive.  However,  Charles 
and  Bain  found  it  —  and  started  off  gaily  enough.  At 
least,  such  exercise  is  good  for  the  liver. 

Half-way  down  the  hill  Bain  "cracked."  Leaping, 
so  to  speak,  from  crag  to  crag,  their  pace  had  been  too 
furious.  He  had  to  rest,  and  they  sat  down  under  a 
cypress  and  began  to  talk.  Bain  was  restive.  He  was 
put  out  by  a  letter  he  had  received  that  morning.  His 
extraordinary  successes  had  made  him  too  many 
enemies.  After  all,  it  is  n't  amusing  for  the  grand  seig- 
neurs, the  pomposos,  of  the  art-dealing  worlds  to  have 
their  opinions  first  questioned  and  then  disproved  again 
and  again  by  someone  so  much  younger  and,  according 
to  their  standards,  so  much  less  well  equipped.  They 
could  smile  at,  forgive,  even  encourage  small  victories. 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF   CONNOISSEURSHIP  177 

but  when  it  came  to  Bain's  picking  up  a  forgotten  but 
exquisitely  fine  Velasquez  from  under  their  very  nose  — 
well,  things  became  embittered.  Of  course  he  was  mad. 
An  interesting,  even  a  beautiful  piece  of  painting,  Span- 
ish certainly,  — but  to  call  it  Velasquez  was  quite  absurd! 
It  had  cost  Bain  three  thousand  two  hundred  guineas  at 
Christie's  —  about  five  times  as  much  as  he  would  have 
had  to  pay  if  some  people  had  n't  shared  his  belief,  or  at 
least  thought  that  the  fact  that  he  evidently  so  much 
wanted  it  was  enough  to  go  on,  was  justification  suffi- 
cient for  their  bidding  against  him.  And  in  the  sequel, 
Beruete  and  all  the  English  critics  whose  opinion  was 
of  the  slightest  value  had  come  round.  Of  course  it  was 
a  Velasquez.  Cleaned,  and  with  its  qualities  patent  to 
everyone,  it  had  been  the  clou  of  the  Spring  Old  Masters 
Exhibition  —  and  now  it  had  been  sold  for  a  huge, sum 
—  some  scores  of  thousands  of  pounds.  That,  indeed, 
was  the  chief  cause  of  offence.  For  some  reason  or  other, 
difficult  to  account  for,  but  due,  perhaps,  to  the  interest 
of  his  transactions,  when  Bain  did  sell  a  picture  every- 
one was  cross.  I  do  believe  that  even  those  exquisite 
connoisseurs,  the  members  of  the  Burlington  Fine  Arts 
Club,  occasionally  sell  something,  something  they  no 
longer  care  for,  or  something  which  will  command  a  high 
enough  price  to  enable  them  to  buy  another  picture, 
another  bronze,  that  they  covet  more  than  that  they  are 
parting  with.  And  it  was  the  fact  tliat  he,  too,  was 
guilty  of  this  last,  which  was  both  the  secret  of  Sir  Peter 
Bain's  success  and  the  cause  of  his  unpopularity  — 
where  he  was  unpopular.  He  had,  now  and  again,  to 
throw  this  picture  or  that  to  the  wolves. 


178  CAVIARE 

"Half  these  people  who  spend  their  time  pitching 
into  me  —  yes,  being  jealous  of  me  if  you  like,  although 
I  don't  know  what  they  have  to  be  jealous  about  — 
don't  really  understand.  Some  of  them  are  dealers,  of 
course,  and  I  do,  perhaps,  now  and  then  interfere  with 
their  market.  Not  nearly  as  much  as  they  think,  though. 
They  exaggerate.  But  it's  the  critics  who  worry  me 
most.  They  don't  seem  to  see  that  when  they  write 
about  painting  they  are  expressing  themselves  in  one 
way,  the  way  that  is  open  to  them.  I  can't  write  about 
painting.  I  express  myself  by  acquiring  pictures.  That 's 
my  way  of  criticism,  my  method  of  expression.  And  it 
wants  some  courage,  some  conviction.  If  one's  a  million- 
aire and  one's  spending  a  tithe  of  one's  income  —  or 
capital  —  on  a  picture  gallery,  one  can  afford  a  few 
mistakes.  When  you  're  like  me  and  have  n't  any  money, 
you  can't.  A  critic  sees  a  painting  he  thinks  is  a  Gains- 
borough and  he  says  so  in  print.  Well,  it  is  or  it  is  n't. 
People  forget  his  views  if  later  on  it's  proved  to  be  a 
Hayman.  Anyhow,  he  can  always,  even  against  proof, 
persist  in  his  opinion.  But  if  I  go —  and  it's  true  of  any 
real  collector  —  to  Christie's,  say,  and  see  that  behind 
a  lot  of  dirt  and  varnish  there 's  a  Titian,  well,  I  have  to 
buy  it,  cost  what  it  may.  I  've  got  to  possess  it.  I  have 
the  collector's  passion." 

"A  sort  of  lust  to  possess,"  Charles  hazarded. 

"Yes,  that's  it.  One  wants  the  thing  so  much  that 
one  can't  do  without  it.  And  having  bought  it,  even 
though  one 's  taken  it  home  and  found  it  is  n't  what  one 
thinks,  yet  one  can't  avoid  paying  for  it  —  and  gener- 
ally for  me  the  only  way  to  pay  for  it  is  to  sell  something 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  179 

else.  If  only  they  knew  how  I  hate  selling  —  how  I  even 
hate  having  to  sell  the  paintings  I'm  tired  of.  I  don't 
understand  selling.  That's  my  great  trouble.  I've  got 
to  buy  pictures  without  money  and  to  sell  them  without 
conviction  —  without  the  kind  of  conviction,  I  mean, 
that  makes  one  a  good  salesman.  It's  true  I  sold  that 
Velasquez  for  twenty  times  what  I  paid  for  it,  but  that 
was  almost  obstinacy.  I  hated  its  going  —  but  it  just 
had  to  go.  I  stuck  to  it  as  long  as  I  could.  But  if  I 
had  n't  been  able  to  stick  to  it,  if  I  'd  had  to  sell  it  a  year 
or  two  ago,  I  'd  have  had  to  be  content  with  a  quarter 
of  the  price  I've  just  got.  One  gets  a  good  price  for  a 
painting  when  one  can  do  without  selling  it.  But  I  'm 
rambling  away  from  my  point.  I  do  think  that  a  col- 
lector who  doesn't  sell  things  is  almost  a  fool;  he's 
stagnating.  Sometimes  I  sell  because  I  'm  out  of  conceit 
with  a  painting;  more  often  because  I've  got  to  pay  for 
something  I  've  wanted -more.  The  root  of  the  matter  is, 
that  when  I  see  a  painting,  or  a  vase,  or  a  screen  that  I 
know  is  good  and  is  of  the  kind  I  like,  I  am  no  more  able 
to  resist  buying  it  or  bidding  for  it  —  even  beyond 
prudence  —  than  I  can  avoid  being  hung^5^" 

"But  if  and  when  you  sell,  you  sell  at  a  profit.  And 
anyhow  you  don't  sell  often." 

"Often  enough  —  or  not  often  enough.  It  depends 
on  the  point  of  view.  And  as  for  the  profit,  I  generally 
make  something,  but  the  dealer  I  sell  to  generally  makes 
more.  I  was  telling  you  of  the  Hobbema  I  sold  with 
some  other  paintings  at  a  time  when  I  had  to  have  five 
thousand  pounds  to  pay  for  the  Corots.  I  got  rid  of  it 
for  something  less  than  three  hundred  pounds.  Within  a 


i8o  CAVIARE 

week  Musgrave  sold  it  to  Lord  Capel  for  three  thousand 
five  hundred.  I  did  n't  complain.  Another  time  I 
wanted  fifteen  thousand  pounds  —  had  to  have  it.  I 
wrote  to  a  man  in  the  Rue  Lafitte  and  offered  him  three 
paintings.  He  telegraphed  that  he  was  on  the  way  over 
to  look  at  them:  he  came  all  the  way  to  Carburgh,  and 
he  gave  me  twenty -two  thousand  pounds  for  the  three. 
Eight  thousand  I  took  in  paintings  —  a  couple  of  Manets 
that  are  in  Carburgh  now  were  among  them ;  yes,  I  gave 
them  to  the  gallery.  A  week  later  old  Gandolpho  came 
to  one  of  my  teas  and  told  me  that  the  Rue  Lafitte 
dealer  had  just  sold  such  an  interesting  Titian  for  six 
hundred  thousand  francs.  That  was  one  of  the  three 
paintings  I'd  sold  him.  Now,  there  you  do  have  very 
much  of  an  instance  either  to  support  or  to  confound 
(according  to  the  way  you  look  at  it)  all  the  people  who 
say  I  'm  a  dealer  in  disguise,  that  it 's  nonsense  for  me  to 
pretend  I'm  not  one.  Of  the  twenty -two  thousand  I 
took,  as  I  've  said,  eight  thousand  in  Manets,  and  so  on, 
every  one  of  which  I  've  given  to  Carburgh :  the  balance 
went  to  pay  for  my  Velasquez  and  for  a  lot  of  Barbizon 
paintings  I'd  also  given  to  Carburgh.  And,  as  you 
know,  the  Velasquez  has  recently  had  to  go  the  same 
road  —  and  all  I  have  in  the  bank  is  an  overdraft,  and 
all  the  satisfaction  I  receive  is  letters  from  its  manager 
saying  that  the  overdraft  must  be  reduced!" 

"Anyhow,  I  suppose  a  lot  of  the  Carburgh  people  are 
grateful." 

"  I  hope  so  —  some  of  them  are,  I  know.  Some  are  n't. 
They  used  to  have  meetings  of  the  local  body  when  I 
first  offered  them  the  pictures.   I  'd  made  one  condition 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  i8i 

—  that  they'd  provide  a  gallery,  'Why  should  we  take 
all  these  foreign  paintings?'  they  asked.  'Mr.  Bain 
ought  to  patronise  local  talent  first.  Besides,  these 
French  Impressionists  are  n't  to  everyone's  taste.'  They 
seemed,  some  of  them,  to  think  I  had  some  huge  swindle 
on  —  although  no  one  ever  explained  why  I  should  begin 
my  swindling  by  divesting  myself  of  scores  of  thou- 
sands of  pounds  of  property.  Then,  although  they'd 
undertaken  to  keep  up  a  temporary  gallery,  I  had,  I 
found,  to  pay  all  the  bills.  Somehow  or  other  there  was 
always  a  hitch  about  getting  the  accounts  passed.  And 
they  have  n't  built  a  gallery  yet  —  and  don't  look  like 
building  one." 

"You'd  better  take  the  pictures  back." 

"No,  it'll  be  all  right  by  and  by.  That's  the  one 
thing  I've  worked  for,  the  one  thing  I've  cared  about. 
It  '11  all  have  its  effect.  Carburgh  men  will  have  good 
paintings  to  see,  and  if  they  paint  they  '11  paint  well." 

"But  how  did  you  begin.  Bain.'*" 

"Shall  I  really  tell  you?  At  home  when  I  was  a  boy 
I  never  satisfied  anyone.  None  of  the  ordinary  work 
interested  me.  Pictures  were  the  only  things  I  cared 
about,  and  naturally  it  never  occurred  to  my  people  that 
I  'd  ever  be  able  to  turn  that  taste  into  a  livelihood.  But 
I  had  a  stroke  of  luck.  I  had  an  aunt.  Lady  Morrow, 
who  knew  one  or  two  people  important  in  the  art  world. 
She  told  them  about  me  and  my  passion  for  painting  and 
asked  how  I  could  use  it  to  advantage.  Luckily  they 
were  sensible,  and,  instead  of  suggesting  a  Museum  post 

—  which  I  dare  say  I'd  never  have  got:  there  are  exam- 
inations! —  they  suggested  I'd  better  go  into  a  dealer's 


i82  CAVIARE 

and  do  any  work  to  begin  with  that  came  to  my  hand. 
So  a  place  was  found  for  me  through  my  aunt's  influence 
with  old  Capulet,  and  he  both  made  me  a  slave  and 
taught  me  my  trade.  I  was  paid  a  pound  a  week  —  and 
lived  on  it,  and  saved  too.  It  was  the  saving  that  ruined 
my  health.  I  did  n't  have  enough  to  eat.  At  any  time 
I'd  walk  five  miles  rather  than  waste  sixpence  on  a 
train.  Every  now  and  then  I  'd  spend  a  pound  or  so  on 
some  picture,  too  unimportant  for  Capulet,  that  I  'd  find 
in  some  old  shop  or  bid  for  at  one  of  the  smaller  sales. 
Then  I  'd  clean  it  and  send  it  back  to  be  re-sold.  I  got  a 
Weenix  in  that  way  for  five  pounds  and  sold  it  directly 
afterwards  for  sixty.  So  things  went  on.  I  was  a  sort 
of  skeleton.  I  had  no  nerves,  no  assurance,  no  flesh,  no 
friends.  I  'd  cross  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street  rather 
than  meet  anyone  I  knew.  My  life  was  in  the-  picture 
galleries  and  in  the  dealers'  and  auction  rooms.  After  a 
time  people  got  to  know  about  me  —  and  I  was  offered 
a  post  as  buyer  for  another  dealer.  There  I  had  two 
pounds  a  week.  To  be  actually  buyer,  even  for  a  small 
house  —  that  was  joy.  And  I  did  buy !  I  paid  five  pounds 
for  a  Gainsborough  that  I  found  in  a  bicycle  shop  at 
Norwich.  My  employers  sold  it  for  fifteen  hundred. 
But  —  well,  I  need  n't  bother  you  with  the  details:  we 
differed,  and  I  was  my  own  master,  but  this  time  with 
a  few  pictures  and  a  couple  of  hundred  pounds.  I  took  a 
tiny  place  of  two  rooms  in  St.  James's,  and  was  a  real 
dealer  for  a  little  while.  I  never  went  near  anyone;  I  left 
people  to  come  to  me.  Luckily  they  came  —  and  I  made 
thirty  thousand  pounds  in  a  couple  of  years.  I  thought 
that  was  a  fortune.  I  closed  the  place  and  became 


A  JUSTIFICATION  OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  183 

enthusiastic  about  a  gallery  for  Carburgh,  and  began  to 
make  a  collection  of  my  own.  Now  and  then  I  made  a 
mistake.  But  with  Carburgh  like  a  large  hole  in  the 
pocket  in  which  I  keep  my  money,  I  can't  afford  to  make 
them  nowadays.  In  the  meantime,  if  you  lock  me  up 
I  dare  say  you  '11  stop  me  buying  pictures,  but  short  of 
that  no  one  will  succeed,  I  'm  afraid.  When  I  like  a  thing 
I've  got  to  have  it  —  either  for  myself  or  for  Carburgh. 
The  result  is  that  some  of  the  dealers  have  exalted  me, 
quite  unjustly,  into  a  kind  of  scourge  and  terror.  One  of 
the  funny  things,  though,  is  that  if  you  want  a  thing 
hard  enough  it  almost  always  comes  about  that  you  get 
it,  —  pictures,  I  mean;  I  don't  know  much  about  any- 
thing else.  The  fates  seem  to  combine  to  give  it  you.  I 
remember  once  walking  into  So-and-So's  studio"  —  he 
named  a  portrait-painter  easily  the  first  of  his  time  — 
"and  seeing  there  wet  on  his  easel  a  just  finished  paint- 
ing of  Lady  —  oh,  well,  I  won't  tell  you  her  name.  '  I 
wish  I  could  have  that,'  I  said.  'I  wish  you  could,'  the 
painter  answered  —  '  the  more  so  that  my  sitter  does  n't 
like  it.'  I  thought  of  trying  through  a  friend  to  get  her 
to  sell  it  me.  *I  won't  even  ask  her,'  he  said;  'it's  a 
present  from  the  painter;  she  could  n't  sell  it.'  That 
sounded  conclusive.  Four  years  later  I  met  the  woman 
herself.  I  took  her  in  to  dinner.  I  told  her  I  wanted  her 
portrait.  At  first  she  was  indignant  —  but  Carburgh 
has  it  now." 

"Tell  me  one  more  story,"  Charles  said,  "and  then 
we  ought  to  get  on.  It's  not  too  warm  or  too  dry  on 
these  stones." 

,"One  of  the  most  amusing  things  that  ever  happened 


i84  CAVIARE 

to  me  was  when  one  of  my  friends  near  Salisbury  wrote 
to  me  that  he  'd  decided  he'must  have  his  wife  painted  by 
Mancini,  and  would  n't  I  come  down  to  spend  the  week- 
end and  arrange  how  it  should  be  done,  and  help  him 
with  a  letter  that  would  induce  Mancini  to  do  it.  I 
went  —  and  we  wrote  to  Mancini.  I  must  tell  you  that 
it  was  n't  so  much  a  portrait  of  his  wife  he  wanted  as  a 
Mancini  —  she  'd  already  been  painted  by  Furze.  He 
wanted  a  Mancini  in  the  house.  Monday  came,  and  he 
asked  me  to  let  him  drive  me  into  Salisbury  an  hour 
before  my  train  went,  as  he  wanted  my  advice  about  a 
bureau  that  a  furniture  dealer  had  offered  him.  We 
went.  I  liked  the  bureau,  and  he  arranged  to  buy  it. 
Settling  details  kept  him  a  moment.  I  walked  about 
the  shop.  It's  always  worth  while.  One  never  knows 
what  one  may  find.  I  saw  a  painting  extraordinarily 
vivid  in  colour  stuck  away  at  the  back  in  a  corner.  It 
was  surely  —  yes,  it  certainly  was  a  Mancini,  a  good 
Mancini.  My  friend  was  speaking  to  his  chauffeur. 
'Where  did  you  get  this?'  I  asked  the  dealer.  'Oh,  that 
thing,  that's  nothing;  I  bought  all  the  contents  of  the 
nursery  at  the  big  house  at  Shrewley :  that  was  among 
them.'  'What  do  you  want  for  it?'  'Want  for  it!  I'll 
take  ten  shillings  and  be  glad.'  I  gave  him  his  ten  shil- 
lings just  as  my  host  returned.  The  best  of  the  story  is 
that  he'd  seen  the  picture,  even  looked  at  it  —  it  had  n't 
struck  him  that  it  was  out  of  the  common.  Certainly 
the  name  of  Mancini  never  occurred  to  him  in  connec- 
tion with  it.  And  it  was  n't  till  he  heard  that  it  had 
come  from  Shrewley  and  he  'd  told  me  that  the  Baskombes 
lived  there  that,  with  my  reminder  that  Mrs.  Baskombe 


A  JUSTIFICATION   OF  CONNOISSEURSHIP  185 

was  one  of  Mancini's  first  patrons,  he  remembered  that 
the  painter  had  stopped  almost  at  his  door  for  months. 
Anyhow,  my  new  Mancini  was  a  better  one  than  the  one 
ultimately  painted  for  him.  Carburgh  has  mine.  Eyes 
and  no  eyes,  of  course.  My  friend  liked  paintings  well 
enough,  but  he  could  n't  be  sure  a  painting  was  good 
unless  it  had  a  label." 

"  Well,  you  can  never  tire  of  such  a  life.  It  can't  be 
dull." 

"You're  right;  it's  not  dull.  But  it's  wearing  —  and 
it's  jolly  ungrateful,  and  too  exciting  sometimes.  But 
the  whole  thing  is  my  life.  Anyhow,  I've  got  now  an 
enormous  amount  of  practical  knowledge  without,  as  so 
often  happens,  my  individuality  going.  My  knowledge 
has  n't  made  me  a  machine." 

Charles  did  n't  say  so,  but  he  thought  as  he  got  up 
that  Bain  was  right,  that  if  by  individuality  he  meant, 
as  he  must  mean,  character,  he  certainly  had  enough 
and  to  spare.  He  glowed  with  character,  individuality, 
temperament  —  all  subordinated  to  a  passion  for  paint- 
ing, a  passion  that  was  consuming  him. 

The  day  was  drawing  in  when  they  almost  limped 
into  Monte  Carlo.  Bain  would  n't  stop  and  dine.  He 
gave  Charles  tea  and  then  departed,  worn-out,  in  a 
tram-car.  He  had  refused  to  take  a  carriage. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

NIGHT   THOUGHTS 

THAT  night  Charles  tossed  to  and  fro  on  his  bed. 
Whether  it  was  that  his  walk  down  from  La 
Turbie  had  been  too  much  for  him,  or  that  he 
had  gone  to  bed  too  early  —  for  nowadays  he  thought 
rather  of  Alison  than  of  amusement  when  midnight 
approached  —  or  that  his  gambling,  the  last  gambling 
of  his  life,  as  he  called  it,  had  upset  his  nerves,  he  did  n't 
know,  but  he  certainly  could  not  sleep.  He  rolled  from 
side  to  side  in  the  search  for  rest  and  a  cool  place. 

His  gambling  that  evening  had  not  been  drainatic, 
it  hadn't  even  been  exciting.  He'd  dined  first  with 
two  friends  and  had  then  gone  into  the  Rooms  quite 
casually  —  casually,  because  he  was  beginning  to  feel 
that  after  all  there  was  n't  any  reason  why  he  should 
gamble  at  all.  Why  not  make  sure  of  keeping  his  money. 
Two  hundred  pounds  was  a  useful  sum  whether  in 
Europe  or  in  America.  It  would  make  rough  paths 
smooth.  And  then,  too,  it  represented  his  only  capital. 
Mr.  Pyeman  was  n't  likely  to  be  amenable  to  the  extent 
of  making  him  any  advances.  That  was  n't  his  way, 
and  particularly  it  was  n't  his  way  with  Charles,  whom 
he  respected  just  as  much  as  it  was  necessary  and  seemly 
to  respect  a  younger  son.  Charles  was  n't  exactly  the 
type  of  young  man  who  won  his  respect  —  nor  had 
Charles  tried  to  win  it. 


NIGHT   THOUGHTS  187 

So  why  gamble?  Perhaps  he  would  n't.  But  getting 
into  the  Rooms  and  looking  at  one  of  the  tables  he  was 
struck  with  the  fact  that  the  dozens  were  running  inter- 
mittently, that  there  were  no  "sequences" — that 
the  same  dozen  did  n't  succeed  itself  again  and  again,  I 
mean.  To  play  for  such  sequences  was  one  of  Charles's 
favourite  games.  Of  course  —  and  no  one  knew  it  better 
than  he  did  —  the  sequence  of  dozens  occurs  in  the 
long  run  just  as  often  as  it  should,  just  as  often  and  no 
oftener.  The  mathematical  average  always  rights  itself. 
There  was  in  reality  no  more  reason  for  playing  for  a 
repetition  than  for  a  change.  But  logic  told  Charles  one 
thing  and  his  prejudices  told  him  another.  And  so, 
seeing  that  the  dozens  had  been  intermittent  —  oh,  the 
jargon  of  the  tables !  —  he  began  to  play  for  their  repeat- 
ing. By  good  luck  repeat  they  did,  and  so  Charles  won, 
and  went  on  winning  —  not  the  larger  sums  he  was 
prepared  to  risk,  his  stake  never  exceeding  forty  louis, 
but  respectable  sums  which,  finding  their  way  to  his 
breast  pocket,  began  soon  to  make  the  box  he  carried 
very  heavy.  After  half  an  hour,  although  he  had  kept 
no  record,  he  had  the  certainty  that  it  contained  more 
than  three  hundred  louis.  So  he'd  at  least  doubled  his 
capital,  and  even  if  now  he  lost  five  coups  running,  he'd 
have  an  easy  mind  and  could  return  to  London  with 
equanimity.  That  was  why  he  went  to  bed. 

I  suppose  the  truth  was  that  in  these  days  Charles's 
spirit  was  in  a  ferment.  lie  was  not  used  to  being  in 
love,  not  really  in  love.  And  it  had  altered  his  character. 
He  'd  never  had  anything  of  high  seriousness  to  think  of 
hitherto.  His  own  comfort,  yes,  of  his  reading,  his  pleas- 


I88  CAVIARE 

ant  interests,  his  friends  —  but  not  of  the  future,  not  all 
the  time  engrossingly  of  one  woman's  eyes,  of  the  place 
he  longed  for  her  to  share  with  him  through  all  the  years 
to  come.  Now  he  had  to  worry  in  a  different  sense  from 
the  way  he  had  worried  in  the  past  about  ways  and 
means.  And  he  had  to  cut  loose  from  all  his  past  life 
and  to  go  across  the  Atlantic,  to  live  among  people 
whom  he  would  not  understand,  and  who  would  not 
understand  him,  to  seek  for  work  and  to  do  it  —  or  to 
fail.  Charles  could  walk  in  the  sun,  he  could  talk  to 
Bain,  he  could  gamble,  but  nothing  could  shut  out  these 
thoughts. 

What  worried  Charles  most  persistently,  the  question 
that  occurred  again  and  again,  was  what  work  he  was  to 
do?  How  could  he  best  hope  to  make  good?  Was  n't 
the  whole  thing  rather  a  fool's  errand?  And,  after  all, 
had  Mr.  Gorham  held  out  any  reasonable  hope  of  his 
getting  any  work?  He  was  neither  of  an  age  nor  of  the 
kind  of  training  that  he  could  hopefully  take  the  first 
job  that  ofiFered  itself.  He  had  a  vague  idea  that  the 
conventional  thing  to  do  was  to  arrive  in  New  York 
with  half  a  crown  in  your  pocket  and  then  work  up 
from  that.  That  sort  of  thing  was  all  very  well  for  the 
last  generation.  Nowadays  one  was  handicapped  in  all 
sorts  of  ways.  Why,  one  even  had  to  arrive  with  ever 
so  much  more  than  half  a  crown  —  with  twenty-five 
dollars  or  some  such  sum.  And  one  had  to  show  it.  Per- 
haps, though,  that  did  n't  apply  to  the  first-class  pas- 
senger. But  he'd  be  handicapped  in  being  a  first-class 
passenger  too.  If  one  was  looking  for  a  job  in  London, 
Charles  had  always  heard,  one  should  wear  one's  best 


NIGHT   THOUGHTS  189 

clothes,  be  particular  about  one's  hat  and  one's  boots. 
Apparently,  though,  his  best  clothes  were  n't  going  to 
help  at  all  when  he  reached  New  York.  Contrariwise. 
He  supposed  Mr.  Gorham  was  a  typical  captain  of  in- 
dustry, and  he  had  n't  had  any  hesitation  in  declaring 
his  prejudices  against  Charles's  Bond  Street  vestments. 
He  wondered  whether  he  ought  to  search  in  London 
for  the  true  American  cut.  Perhaps  it  could  be  found 
in  the  shops  that  flanked  the  Hotel  Cecil. 

But  no,  he  didn't  think  he'd  achieve  anything  by 
that  kind  of  ignoble  compromise.  He'd  vowed  that 
he'd  stick  to  his  eyeglass.  He'd  stick  to  his  clothes 
too,  and  he  'd  use  just  as  many  or  just  as  few  American- 
isms in  his  speech  as  he  could  pick  up  naturally  and 
without  effort  between  Monaco  and  Sandy  Hook.  He  'd 
heard  of  Sandy  Hook.  .  .  .  And  then  he  began  to  plan 
out  his  procedure  when  he  got  there.  He  tried  to  re- 
member what  he'd  been  told  of  the  place.  He'd  lots 
of  friends  —  acquaintances  too  —  in  New  York  and 
Washington.  Should  he  look  them  up?  No.  He  would 
n't  even  tell  them  he  was  there.  They  'd  interfere  with 
business  —  whatever  business  it  was.  The  men  and 
women  that  Charles  knew  would  not  assist  serious 
pursuits.  He'd  been  in  Berlin  once,  on  a  quite  serious 
errand  —  to  see  its  pictures.  One  of  his  cousins  was  an 
attache  at  the  Embassy.  As  a  consequence  Charles's 
visit  to  Berlin  was  from  the  point  of  view  of  painting 
an  entire  failure.  Besides,  the  kind  of  people,  English 
and  American,  who  formed  the  society  easily  accessible 
to  Charles  in  New  York  would  n't  understand  what 
he'd  come  over  for.  Assuredly  they'd  laugh  at  the  idea 


190  CAVIARE 

of  his  working.  Perhaps  they  'd  think  he  was  searching 
for  an  heiress.  At  least  in  that  respect  his  hands  were 
clean.  Likely  by  the  end  of  the  spring  he'd  have  more 
money  to  his  name  than  Alison's  father.  Perhaps  that 
was  the  one  cheering  factor  in  the  situation.  He'd  have 
the  greater  chance. 

Now  it  was  Friday  night.  In  five  days  at  this  hour 
he  'd  be  out  on  the  Atlantic.  At  the  most  he  could  only 
stop  three  days  more  here  in  the  South,  Twenty -four 
hours  would  take  him  back  to  London.  Should  he 
decide  to  gamble  no  more?  Should  he  go  back  to  Paris 
by  the  early  morning  train  and,  in  spite  of  his  determina- 
tion, see  Alison  again?  He'd  be  breaking  no  actual 
promise  if  he  did.  Perhaps  he  could  help  about  Mr. 
Gorham.  It  did  n't  sound  likely  though.  Mr.  Gorham 
was  sufficiently  tied  up.  No,  to  go  back  to  Miss  Gor- 
ham after  her  father's  message  would  hardly  be  playing 
the  game.  She  had  n't  written  to  him,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  prevent  his  writing  to  her,  to  give  her  first 
the  date  of  his  passing  through  Paris,  when  he  'd  tell  her 
he  'd  look  on  the  chance  for  a  letter  at  the  Chatham,  and 
then  an  address  in  New  York,  that,  if  she  would  only 
take  the  trouble,  he  might  have  news  of  her  father. 
That,  apart  from  everything  else,  would  be  polite. 

Charles  turned  on  his  light,  rose  and  wrote  at  once. 
He  told  Alison  he  was  returning  by  Monday's  luxe. 
Now  he  was  happier.  He  could  sleep.  The  morrow 
could  take  care  of  itself.  In  no  case  now  could  any  dis- 
aster threaten.  He  could  n't  even  lose  the  money  he'd 
brought  down.  His  next,  his  real  ordeal  would  not  begin 
for  another  eleven  days. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

IN    WHICH    IS    DEMONSTRATED    THE    DULNESS    OF    GAM- 
BLING,   AND   AN   AWFUL   EXAMPLE   IS   EXHIBITED 

IT  was  daylight  when  Charles  woke  —  not  natur- 
ally, but  because  the  blinds  were  being  blown  to 
and  fro  by  the  wind.  The  sea  was  all  white  horses. 
The  mountains  that  yesterday  were  razor-sharp  against 
a  blue  sky  were  to-day  hidden  in  mist.  The  rain  was 
beating  in  at  the  window.  A  day  in  which  Monte  Carlo 
looks  its  worst.  It  was  too  early  for  any  visitor  to  be 
abroad  in  the  square  below.  A  few  gardeners  were  work- 
ing at  the  flowers,  a  sleepy  policeman  seemed  to  be  all 
waterproof  cape,  there  was  a  tradesman's  cart.  It 
was  n't  amusing.  Days  like  this  were  good  for  the  ad- 
ministration or  the  Societe  des  Bains  de  Mer.  Certainly 
one  could  n't  bathe.  The  bathers  would  come  and 
gamble.  Charles  wondered  if  anyone  had  ever  been 
known  to  bathe  during  the  season  at  Monte  Carlo. 
Again  the  impulse  came  to  him  to  go  away,  to  go  some- 
where else.  But  where?  Besides,  perhaps  there  would  n't 
be  a  seat  in  the  train.  No,  here  he  was,  here  at  least 
he  could  pass  the  time,  here  he  had  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances to  whom  his  presence  was  natural.  He 
would  take  tickets  for  the  luxe  for  Monday  night. 
Bowles  should  go  with  him.  He'd  be  wanted  to  unpack 
and  to  pack  in  London.  After  that  Charles  would  be 
servantless. 


192  CAVIARE 

Having  shut  out  the  gale,  Charles  went  back  to  bed, 
and  slept  again. 

The  day  had  n't  improved  when  Charles  woke  a 
second  time.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  such  days, 
wind-swept,  cold,  wet,  are  rare  in  the  South.  They  arrive 
too  often.  And  when  they  come  they  often  repeat  them- 
selves. One  may  come  to  Monte  Carlo  in  any  one  of  the 
three  first  months  of  the  year  and  find  grey  skies  and 
for  a  fortnight  see  no  sun.  One  may.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  is  not  likely.  As  probable  is  it  to  come  and  see  no 
cloud  through  two  weeks,  and  to  return  welcoming  the 
clouds  that  seem  to  wait  the  arrival  of  the  Folkestone 
and  Dover  boats.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  in  Monte  Carlo 
rain  and  cold  wind  leaves  the  visitor  so  utterly  without 
resource.  Most  of  the  hotels  make  no  adequate  pro- 
vision for  their  guests'  recreation.  Writing,  reading, 
billiard-rooms  —  they  hardly  exist.  The  visitor  is  sup- 
posed to  have  come  to  gamble.  It  is  true  there's  a 
theatre  and  an  opera  —  but  they  don't  occupy  the  day, 
and  tickets  are  not  easy  to  obtain.  And  there  is  a 
picture  gallery  which  has  a  small  stage  where  the  dancer 
of  the  moment  may  pass  an  hour  of  the  afternoon. 
It  is  extraordinary  that  having  a  picture  gallery  it  has 
never  occurred  to  the  powers  to  have  an  exhibition 
of  pictures  —  an  exhibition  of  real  pictures,  I  mean. 
Then  there  is  the  train  to  Nice.  But  what,  I  ask  you,  is 
there  to  do  in  Nice.?  There  are  cheap  shops  as  well  as 
dear.  That  in  itself  is  a  relief.  But  one  cannot  turn 
cheap  shopping  into  a  permanent  pastime.  Nor  can 
one  look  into  the  windows  of  the  jewellers  and  dress- 


THE   DULNESS   OF  GAMBLING  193 

makers  of  the  Place  Massena  in  the  rain.  Remains  the 
Casino.  .  .  . 

So  Charles  found.  All  the  morning  he  pottered  about 
his  room.  He  made  lists  of  the  things  he'd  want  to 
take  to  New  York,  lists  that  he'd  mislay  before  he 
reached  Marseilles;  he  wrote  to  a  few  friends;  he  tele- 
phoned to  Bain  to  ask  if  he  were  worn-out,  and  was  told 
that  he  was  still  asleep;  he  wrote  down  the  numbers 
suggested  by  Alison's  name  once  more  on  his  shirt-cuff; 
he  prodded  the  contents  of  his  pocket  money-box  with 
his  paper-knife  that  they  might  be  forcibly  induced  to 
take  up  as  little  room  as  possible,  and  so  seem  to  invite 
additions;  he  read  the  entertaining  Monte  Carlo  "Mes- 
senger"; he  explained  to  Bowles  that  in  three  days  his 
wages  would  be  paid,  a  present  would  be  given  him,  and 
he  would  be  needed  no  more.  But  the  day  did  n't  pass. 
Even  so,  it  was  n't  an  hour  at  which  he  could  decently 
lunch.   Remained  the  Casino.  .  .  . 

To  the  Rooms,  then.  Charles  found  them  crowded, 
uncomfortable,  damp  —  steaming,  indeed.  Nice  had 
come  to  Monte  Carlo  for  recreation.  Charles  did  n't 
like  it.  You  see  he  'd  vowed  to  himself  to  play  in  one  way 
only,  and  as  a  consequence  all  the  possible  fun  had 
evaporated.  No  longer  could  he  go  to  a  table  and  plank 
down  a  handful  of  louis  on  some  casual  chance.  No, 
he  had  to  follow  a  definite  routine.  Ten,  twenty,  fortes 
eighty,  one-fifty.  He  found  himself  repeating  the  figures 
over  and  over  to  himself.  It  was  a  great  bore.  The  idea 
that  the  whole  thing  was  either  important  or  amusing 
had  receded  into  some  recess  of  his  mind.  He  looked  at 
all  these  people  stretching  out  grubby  paws  to  place  or  to 


194  CAVIARE 

withdraw  five-franc  pieces,  and  his  gorge  rose.  He  won- 
dered whether  he  could  n't  hire  a  hall  just  on  the  other 
side  of  the  border,  in  France,  —  in  Monte  Carlo  Supe- 
rieur,  or  Beau  Soleil,  whatever  it  is  called,  —  and 
deliver  lectures  on  the  absolute  folly  of  gambling  even 
in  a  place  where,  as  far  as  one  can  make  out,  the  gam- 
bling is  fair.  Fair?  He  doubted  whether  his  hearers 
would  think  it  fair  if  he  could  only  get  it  into  their  heads 
that  every  hundred  francs  they  put  on  the  table  was 
worth,  even  before  the  ball  had  started  rolling,  only 
ninety-seven.  "Take  it  off  while  there  is  time,"  he'd 
have  liked  to  have  called  out;  "take  it  off  while  it  is 
still  worth  a  hundred."  But  it  would  be  useless. 
The  gambler  and  the  novice  would  both  answer: 
"Take  it  off!  Certainly  not.  It  may  be  worth  two 
hundred."  Charles  saw  himself  billed  to  deliver  two 
lectures  at  3  p.m.  punctually  on  Saturday  and  Sun- 
day. He'd  have  no  time  for  more.  His  subject  should 
be  "The  True  Function  of  Zero  in  the  Modern 
State."  Could  n't  he  get  all  the  people  to  understand 
that  whether  they  played  carefully  or  carelessly, 
whether  they  had  systems  or  followed  impulse,  the 
end  was  always  the  same?  Zero  took  its  percentage. 
At  least  three  per  cent  of  every  penny  staked  on  the 
board.  .  .  . 

But  while  he  had  been  thinking  he  had  been  watching 
the  numbers  coming  up  at  the  table  at  which  he  was 
standing.  If  he  had  been  backing  what  he  called  in  his 
own  mind  —  a  little  sacrilegiously  —  the  Alison  se- 
quence, he'd  have  fared  ill.  He'd  have  been  cleaned 
out,  cleaned  out  twice.    Perhaps  this  was  the  time  to 


THE  DULNESS   OF   GAMBLING  19$ 

begin.  Ten  louis  went  on  the  first  dozen.  .  .  .  Charles 
was  gambling  again. 

Happily  he  gambled  with  success  —  with  success  and 
almost  without  excitement.  When  it  was  time  to  go  to 
breakfast  the  box  was  so  full  that  he  could  not  even  get 
another  louis  into  it.  So  much  the  better.  And  it  was 
good  luck.  But  notice,  please:  it  was  always  at  the  be- 
ginning of  every  sequence  five  chances  to  two  against 
his  being  beaten  by  the  bank,  and  luck  just  now  was  on 
his  side.  As  easily  might  it  be  against  him.  It  is  not 
an  experiment  that  I  should  recommend.  Nor  would 
Charles.  Still,  I  cannot  pretend  that  he  bothered  much 
about  that  side  of  the  matter  when,  back  in  his  room, 
he  took  out  the  heavy  box,  shook  it  to  see  if  it  made  any 
noise  of  coin  against  coin  (it  was  too  full  for  that,  as  a 
matter  of  fact;  the  amalgam  of  paper  and  coins  was  too 
intimate),  and  then,  reassured,  packed  it  away  between 
the  pieces  of  a  suit  of  clothes.  That  was  the  box  of 
which  the  key  had  already  gone  to  London.  He  took 
out  another,  its  twin,  locked  it,  wrapped  up  the  key,  and 
addressing  it,  sent  it  to  join  its  fellow  in  the  porter's 
lodge  of  his  London  club. 

I  am  as  tired  of  describing  all  this  gambling  of 
Charles's  as  Charles  was  of  the  business  itself.  It  was  n't 
gambling  —  or  it  was  n't  gambling  as  he  understood  it. 
He  knew  what  the  odds  were,  and  he  kept  laying  them, 
and,  fortune  favouring,  he  kept  winning.  Not  once 
since  he'd  reached  the  place  had  he  reached  his  maxi- 
mum stake.  But  there  was  n't  any  fun.  There  was  no 
giving  way  to  impulse.  Not  for  him  the  feverish  joy  of 


196  CAVIARE 

bringing  off  an  en  plein  —  which  is  the  gambler's  slang 
for  the  backing  of  a  simple  single  number.  He  could  n't 
even  experiment  with  a  transversale.  He  'd  have  broken 
faith  with  himself  if  he  'd  put  a  louis  on  an  even  chance. 
Charles  came  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Rooms  were  too 
dull  to  be  dangerous,  and  that  the  gambler's  day, 
marked  out  by  meals,  punctuated  by  drinks,  was  the 
stupidest  in  the  world.  He  had  thought  otherwise  before 
he  had  known  Alison  —  he  had  thought  otherwise  even 
on  the  days  when  the  mountains  were  crowned  with 
grey  clouds,  and  when  as  to-day  the  Rooms  steamed 
with  the  dampness  of  the  votaries  of  chance. 

And  then  lunch.  There  can  be  no  function  in  the 
world  duller  than  that  of  lunch  or  dinner  in  a  restaurant 
of  the  first  order  when  no  appetite  is  brought  to  table. 
And  there  is  not  much  appetite  in  Monte  Carlo.  How 
indeed  can  there  be?  The  visitor  overeats  and  takes  no 
exercise,  takes  no  exercise  and  overeats.  He  overeats 
because  a  certain  number  of  dishes  are  the  fashion  — 
and  they  are  rich  dishes  because  the  restaurateur  can't 
charge  big  sums  for  simple  food.  The  sensible  people  are 
those  who  make  a  point  of  walking  every  day  to  Beau- 
lieu  or  Mentone  or  La  Turbie,  and  who  refuse  to  be 
seduced  into  eating  more  than  they  need.  The  atmo- 
sphere of  the  Rooms  takes  away  appetite,  too,  and  de- 
stroys the  spirit.  In  the  old  days  one  had  a  long  night 
in  which  to  recuperate.  Gambling  ceased  at  eleven;  the 
restaurants  closed  soon  after.  Now  the  Rooms  are, 
generally  speaking,  open  for  another  hour,  and  they 
start  an  hour  earlier  than  they  did;  and  the  restaurants 
—  they  stop  open  just  as  long  as  people  remain  in  them. 


THE   DULNESS   OF   GAMBLING  197 

So  Charles  went  to  an  unhappy  lunch,  I  ask  you 
how  can  one  eat  eggs  or  fish  and  a  tournedo  when  for  a 
couple  of  hours  one  has  done  nothing  but  hang  about 
in  an  atmosphere  one  can  cut  with  a  knife?  Pretending 
to  eat,  he  consoled  himself  with  the  memory  of  his  full 
money-box.  But  he  almost  wished  that  he  had  no  longer 
any  available  capital  with  which  to  play.  He  had  been 
playing  in  the  same  spirit  as  that  in  which  he  now  cut 
pieces  off  the  meat  on  his  plate  —  without  any  zest. 
The  truth  was,  this  visit  to  the  South,  although  it  had 
been  profitable,  was  a  mistake.  Monte  Carlo  is  no  fit 
theatre  for  a  man  in  love.  He  could  no  longer  throw 
himself  into  the  life  of  the  place.  What  last  year  had  been 
amusing  this  year  had  no  attractions.  A  man  in  love 
had  the  conventions  to  regard.  He  even  found  himself 
avoiding  his  friends.  They  belonged  to  a  past  that  was 
dead  —  or  dying. 

There  was  Bain,  of  course.  His  interests  were  not 
offensive;  they  were  actually  amusing.  Charles  once 
more  turned  to  him  in  his  dulness.  He  telephoned.  No, 
Bain  would  n't  dine  with  him  —  he  could  n't.  "But  I 
do  wish  you'd  dine  with  me,  Caerleon.  I've  two  men 
coming  to  dinner.  Where?  I  don't  know.  You  tell  me. 
Yes,  that'll  do.  And  please,  like  a  good  chap,  do  go  and 
order  the  dinner  for  me,  and  the  wine.  You  see,  I  don't 
know  anything  about  food."  Charles  did  n't  welcome 
the  idea  of  ordering  a  meal  someone  else  was  to  pay  for, 
but  it  would  all  help  to  pass  the  time. 

Bain's  friends  were  not  particularly  artistic.  They 
were  the  kind  of  people  whom  one  knows  in  Monte 


198  CAVIARE 

Carlo,  asks  to  dinner  in  Monte  Carlo,  and  whom,  except 
for  an  accident,  one  does  n't  see  till  one  conies  to  Monte 
Carlo  again.  One  of  them  Charles  found  that  he  had 
met  before.  It  was  n't  a  memorable  meal  —  although 
Charles  always  remembered  the  evening  for  one  fresh 
insight  into  the  gambler's  possibilities.  "Excuse  me  a 
moment,"  said  one  of  Bain's  guests.  (I  should  explain 
that  they  were  dining  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris,  which  is  on 
the  Casino  square.)  In  a  couple  of  minutes  he  was  back 
again.  The  fish  finished,  he  disappeared  afresh.  "What's 
the  matter  with  Mostyn?"  Bain  asked  his  other  guest. 

"I  fancy  he's  had  an  inspiration  and  has  run  across 
to  the  Rooms  —  gone  to  back  the  number  of  his  cloak- 
room ticket,  or  something  of  that  kind." 

"I  wish  he'd  finish  his  dinner  first  anyhow,"  Bain 
answered.   "It's  so  jolly  jumpy.  But  we'll  ask  him?  " 

Mostyn  returned,  looking  this  time  a  little  down  in 
the  mouth,  Charles  thought, 

"Have  you  been  in  the  Rooms  in  those  three  min- 
utes?" Bain  asked  inquisitorially. 

Mostyn  nodded.  "I  had  a  feeling  that  seventeen  was 
going  to  turn  up  and  I  rushed  across  to  back  it." 

"And  did  it?" 

"No.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  the  next  time,  but 
I  did  n't  want  you  to  miss  me." 

Bain  was  peevish:  "Oh,  we  shouldn't  have  missed 
you.  You  go  and  play  if  you  want  to.  Don't  mind  us — 
or  the  cook." 

Mostyn  was  too  set  on  number  seventeen  to  notice 
Bain's  tone.  He  took  what  had  been  said  literally,  and 
at  the  conclusion  of  the  next  course  was  ofiF  again. 


THE   DULNESS   OF   GAMBLING  199 

"He  did  just  the  same  thing  last  night,"  his  friend 
explained.  "Since  he's  been  down  here  I  can  get  him  to 
do  nothing  else  but  gamble.  He  was  in  the  Rooms  even 
before  we  went  to  the  hotel;  he  was  in  the  Casino  be- 
fore they  opened  the  next  morning.  No,  I  don't  know 
whether  he's  lost  much.  I  don't  think  he's  won.  The 
way  he  plays  I  don't  see  how  he  can.  He  runs  from 
table  to  table,  from  roulette  to  trente-et-quarante,  shov- 
ing gold  down  here  and  a  note  there  —  forgetting  half 
the  time,  I  should  think,  what  he's  staked  or  where  he's 
staked  it.  He'll  have  no  nerves  left  if  he  goes  on  this 
way." 

"And  no  money  either,"  said  Bain. 

In  a  minute  the  truant  came  back.  "Tell  the  truth 
now;  did  you  win?"  Bain  asked. 

Mostyn  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  didn't.  Zero  came 
up!"  Then  he  turned  to  his  companion:  "Do  lend  me  a 
couple  of  milles  before  we  go  into  the  Rooms  after  din- 
ner." His  friend  gave  him  the  money  at  once.  Money 
is  very  easily  lent  in  Monte  Carlo.  And,  curiously  enough 
perhaps,  it  is  generally  repaid. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  GETS  AWAY   WITH   IT 

THE  next  morning,  the  morning  of  Sunday, 
came.  It  found  Charles  a  little  surfeited  with 
success.  He  had  played  overnight  and  had 
continued  to  win.  He  had  n't  played  very  long,  but  he 
had  played  long  enough  for  it  to  have  seemed  impossible 
for  him  to  lose  five  times  running  and  so  to  put  an  end 
once  and  for  all  to  his  gambling  career.  When  the 
Rooms  closed.  Bain's  friends  —  Bain  himself  had  taken 
care  to  go  to  his  hotel  by  the  last  tram  —  dragged  him 
off  to  supper,  and  it  was  more  in  order  to  get  away  from 
the  kind  of  night  restaurant  scenes  with  which  he  had 
been  surfeited  in  Paris  than  from  any  wish  to  gamble 
again  that  he'd  suggested  going  on  to  the  Sporting  Club. 
There  one  gambles  in  rather  greater  comfort,  amid 
better-dressed  people,  in  a  company  which  is  nominally 
respectable  —  and  one  can  smoke.  They  wanted  Charles 
to  play  baccarat.  That  he  would  have  liked.  It  would 
have  been  a  change  from  the  eternal  and  infernal  rou- 
lette. But  it  would  n't  have  been  according  to  his  rule. 
So  he  played  his  progression  again  and  again  and  again, 
till  at  the  end  his  second  box  was  so  full  that  it  would 
hold  nothing  else.  His  last  stake  was  a  hundred  and  fifty 
louis  —  the  maximum.  "If  that  goes  down,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "I'll  be  free.  There'll  be  no  more  gambling  for 
Charles  Caerleon."    But  it  did  n't  go  down.    He  had 


CHARLES   GETS   AWAY   WITH    IT  201 

backed  the  second  column,  and  number  eight  turned  up. 
On  that  one  series  he  was  three  one  thousand  franc 
notes  to  the  good.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  could  n't  get 
them  into  the  box.  All  the  same  he  ceased  playing. 

Charles,  I  should  perhaps  regret  to  say,  was  no 
Sabbatarian,  but  nevertheless  he  did  n't  go  into  the 
Casino.  He  was  sick  of  it.  Besides,  Sunday  's  a  bad  day 
anyhow:  all  the  little  people  of  Nice  and  Mentone,  of 
Bordighera  and  Cannes  come  over,  each  with  fifty 
francs,  and  cram  the  Rooms  to  the  point  of  suffocation. 
Two  invitations  had  come  his  way  the  previous  evening. 
One  to  spend  the  day  at  a  friend's  villa  at  Cap  Ferrat 
he  rejected  as  he  lay  in  bed  and  watched  light  clouds 
dapple  the  broad  sunlight  in  which  the  mountains,  mist- 
crowned  yesterday,  were  now  bathed.  He  liked  playing 
bridge,  but  it  seemed  rather  a  sacrilege  to  spend  that 
exquisite  sunshine  on  a  game  that  would  last,  with  inter- 
vals for  meals,  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival  to  that  of 
his  departure.  To  play  cards  in  broad  daylight  in  the 
open  air  was  an  impropriety  anyway.  The  other  pro- 
posal was  more  to  his  liking  —  to  motor  over  to  Venti- 
miglia  and  up  into  the  mountains  to  Tenda,  and  if  the 
snow  allowed,  to  the  Col  and  through  the  tunnel.  He 
had  done  it  before  —  often;  but  it  was  an  excursion  of 
which  one  could  never  tire.  To  run  first  along  the  coast 
to  Italy's  first  town  and  then,  changing  the  whole  char- 
acter of  the  route,  to  turn  inland  up  the  valley  and  to 
find  oneself  going  higher  and  higher,  to  be  in  one  half- 
hour  in  France  and  in  the  next  in  Italy,  and  to  repeat 
this  process  again  and  again,  to  pass  hilltop  villages  that 


202  CAVIARE 

threaten  to  fall  with  the  rocks  that  support  them  on  to 
the  traveller,  to  reach  Tenda  itself  and  to  lunch  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  to  drink  wine  before  a  crackling 
wood  fire  at  four  or  five  pennies  a  bottle  —  it  was  all 
great  fun.  And  after  lunch  to  endanger  car  and  one's 
own  life  zigzagging  up  the  pass,  where  a  slip  on  the  ice- 
covered  road  would  drop  one  thirty  or  forty  feet  into 
the  road  below,  to  go  through  the  long  dark  hole  in  the 
mountain-top  —  miles  it  seems  —  meeting  midway, 
perhaps,  a  procession  of  market  carts,  each  with  three 
or  four  horses,  bringing  the  provisions  of  the  Lombard 
plain  into  the  rich  towns  of  the  Riviera,  until  suddenly 
one  bursts  into  the  sunshine  and  deep  snowdrifts  of  the 
Italian  side  —  it  is  to  be  a  continent  away  from  Monte 
Carlo.  Return,  if  you  are  wise,  by  Sospello,  dropping 
down  into  Mentone  in  the  twilight. 

Charles  and  his  friends  did  these  things.  The  day 
calmed  his  spirit,  it  cleansed  his  mind,  he  began  to  see 
things  more  clearly,  more  reasonably.  Perhaps  he  had 
won  half  a  year's  income  at  his  play.  It  would,  it  should, 
all  help  in  America.  To  have  two  of  his  money-boxes 
full  was  to  have  perhaps  a  large  sum.  He  had  kept  no 
count  and  had  no  idea  of  his  gains.  He  was  back  at  his 
hotel  in  time  to  send  the  key  of  his  third,  his  last,  box 
to  join  its  fellows  in  London.  It  would  get  there  a  few 
hours  before  he  would  himself.  And,  luckily,  a  little 
shaking-up  and  some  manipulation  with  a  paper-knife 
had  enabled  him  to  get  those  last  three  billets,  left  out 
from  his  winnings  of  the  previous  night,  into  the  second 
box.  You  see  he  was  still  afraid  that  he  might,  if  in  the 
few  hours  left  to  him  to-morrow  he  lost  his  capital,  be 


CHARLES   GETS   AWAY    WITH    IT  203 

tempted  to  play,  in  spite  of  all  his  determinations,  his 
promises  to  himself,  with  any  loose,  available  winnings. 
But  in  the  mean  time  his  capital  was  intact.  There  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  n't  give  that  a  chance  to-morrow. 
His  train  went  at  a  quarter  to  five. 

When  Bowles  woke  his  master  the  next  morning  he 
found  him  in  the  highest  of  spirits  at  the  idea  of  leaving 
so  soon.  Bowles,  who  was  a  conservative  in  the  habits 
of  his  life,  thought  it  all  very  odd.  Why  was  his  master 
leaving  the  South  so  quickly?  Why  had  he  stopped  on 
in  Paris?  Why  was  he  going  to  America,  to  his  valet's 
mind  the  most  God-forsaken  of  all  the  God-forsaken 
places  in  the  world?  And,  strangest  of  all,  why  were 
his  services  being  dispensed  with?  Why?  Bowles  had 
no  clue.  But  Charles  was  happy.  He  sang  to  himself  in 
his  bath;  he  flung  wide  open  the  windows  as  he  dressed 
that  the  sun  might  bathe  him  in  its  turn  —  to  the 
great  scandal  of  an  amiable  and  aged  Teuton  who  was 
taking  an  early  constitutional.  To-morrow,  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  would  hear  from  Alison,  would  see  her  hand- 
writing for  the  first  time,  and  then,  reinforced  with  some 
hundreds  of  pounds,  he  would  go  West  to  seek  his  for- 
tune. He  took  his  luck  at  the  tables  as  an  omen.  Un- 
lucky at  cards,  lucky  in  love,  was  not  a  proverb  at 
which  he  need  flinch.  He  had  n't  played,  either,  at  bac- 
carat or  at  trente-et-quarante  this  time  —  both  games 
in  which  cards  are  used;  and  no  one  could  say  he'd  been 
other  than  unlucky  at  them  in  past  years  when  he  had 
played.  And  the  other  kind  of  luck  was  in  arrear,  too: 
it  should  come  now. 


204  CAVIARE 

There  were  still  these  last  hours  to  spend  in  Monte 
Carlo.  The  train  did  n't  go  till  a  quarter  to  five.  Charles 
wished  he  could  start  at  once.  His  valet  would  pack; 
paying  his  bill  and  going  to  the  station  would  be  only  a 
question  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He  was  all  impatience 
to  begin  his  journey;  he  felt  that  when  he  left  Monaco 
he  would  be  on  his  way  to  New  York.  At  another  time, 
in  another  place,  he  could  have  read,  but  at  Monte  Carlo 
you  can't  read.  It  is  like  being  on  board  a  ship.  One  has 
all  the  time  the  restlessness  that  comes  of  feeling  one 
may  be  missing  something.  He  went  down  stairs  and 
out  into  the  sunshine.  Hard  exercise  was  what  he 
wanted,  but  where  should  he  take  it  unless  he  went  up 
into  the  mountains  where,  not  a  mile  as  the  crow  flies 
from  the  Casino,  from  all  this  modernity,  this  luxury, 
one  can  walk  for  hours,  meeting  no  one  but  perhaps  a 
muleteer  with  his  beast,  carrying  some  indistinguish- 
able produce  to  the  valley  below;  where  if  there  are 
houses  they  seem  dead  —  a  barefooted  child,  clad  in 
smock  and  petticoat,  coming  to  the  door  and  ready  to 
vanish  at  once  at  a  word,  the  only  sign  of  life.  But  there 
was  no  time  for  the  mountains. 

Charles  walked  down  to  the  Condamine  and  up  to  the 
extremity  of  the  Rock.  There  for  an  hour  he  sat  on  the 
smaller  bastion  overlooking  the  harbour,  the  bastion 
that  keeps  watch  over  the  Italian  coast.  Monte  Carlo 
was  across  a  half-mile  of  shimmering  water.  Everything 
was  still.  The  smoke  from  the  houses  to  his  left  and  in 
Monte  Carlo  itself  rose  straight.  The  only  movement 
he  could  see  was  that  on  the  pigeon-shooting  ground, 
whence  every  few  seconds  came  a  little  spurt  of  sound. 


CHARLES   GETS   AWAY   WITH    IT  205 

and  a  black  figure  would  run  out.  Time  was  when 
Charles  had  shot  pigeons  himself;  he  had  given  it  up. 
His  mind  turned  to  Alison  and  to  her  father.  Had  he 
been  right  in  leaving  her  in  Paris?  After  Mr.  Gorham's 
message  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  no  choice.  If  he  had 
remained  he  could  not  have  seen  much  of  her.  And  then 
if  he  had  remained,  whatever  his  excuses  were,  he  would 
have  broken  the  spirit  of  his  bargain  with  Mr.  Gorham. 
And  that  solid  gentleman,  what  was  he  doing  now?  It 
did  n't  seem  credible  that  in  this  so-called  twentieth 
century  he  could  really  have  been  kidnapped.  Perhaps 
in  this  castle  here,  at  Ventimiglia,  at  Genoa,  such  things 
had  been  done,  two,  three  hundred  years  ago,  but  to-day, 
and  in  Paris.  .  .  .  Still,  there  it  was.  And  it  was  equally 
certain  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  contemplated  it  without 
any  special  astonishment.  He  had  spoken  rather  as  if 
he  admired  his  enemy's  enterprise.  Charles  supposed 
that  in  a  week  or  two  he'd  be  liberated,  would  find 
that  he'd  lost  his  fortune,  and  would  then  in  the  most 
matter-of-fact  way  proceed  to  make  another.  But  how 
even  in  America  do  you  make  bricks  without  straw? 
And  that  reminded  him  that  in  New  York,  thanks  to 
the  good  fortune  of  the  last  few  days,  he  himself  was  not 
to  be  without  resources,  without  weapons.  What  he  had 
won,  whatever  it  was,  should  be  dedicated  as  the  found- 
ation stone  of  the  success  he  had  to  make.  It  should  be 
the  knife  with  which  he  was  to  open  his  oyster.  To  make 
a  fortune  does  not  seem  so  very  diflScuIt  until  you  have 
tried.  Charles  had  never  tried. 

He  would  walk  back  now  and  see  whether  he  had 
enough  appetite  for  lunch,  his  last  meal  in  the  South, 


206  CAVIARE 

The  meal,  a  cigar,  coffee,  with  a  stroll  on  the  terrace, 
took  Charles  to  three  o'clock.  He  went  into  the  Paris, 
paid  his  bill,  satisfied  the  servants,  told  Bowles  he  would 
meet  him  at  the  train,  and  entered  the  Rooms.  He 
still  had  his  capital  of  three  hundred  louis  intact  save 
for  what  he  had  just  disbursed  —  and  that  was  balanced 
by  the  little  reserve  that  he  had  made  at  the  hour  of  his 
arrival.  He  looked  about  for  Bain,  and  found  him  play- 
ing trente-et-quarante  with  a  small  capital  and  a  nervous 
manner.  He  did  n't  look  as  if  Monte  Carlo  was  agreeing 
with  him.  In  a  few  minutes,  seeing  Charles,  he  jumped 
up  and  came  over  to  talk  to  him.  "I've  a  good  mind 
to  come  back  with  you,"  he  said.  "I  can't  stand  that 
place  at  Cap  Martin.  It's  so  far  off  that  once  one's  here 
one's  got  to  stay  here.  It  means  playing  all  the  time. 
And  I  never  see  the  men  I  'm  with :  they  're  out  all  day 
and  all  night" — and  he  proceeded  to  compound  for  sins 
he  was  inclined  to  by  damning  those  he  had  no  mind  to. 
"However,  I'm  moving  into  Monte  Carlo  to-morrow. 
I  need  n't  be  in  the  Rooms  all  the  time  then.  I  know  a 
lot  of  people  and  I  can  always  get  a  game  of  bridge." 

Charles  smiled. 

"But  come  along,"  Bain  went  on.  "If  you're  just 
going  you'll  want  a  last  gamble.  I'll  watch  you.  But 
perhaps  you're  cleaned  out.?" 

More,  perhaps,  to  show  that  he  still  had  something 
left  than  for  any  other  purposes,  Charles  began  to  play. 
He  staked  again  on  the  numbers  of  Alison's  name.  The 
loss  of  his  initial  ten  louis  on  the  first  dozen  rattled  his 
companion.  He  was  even  more  rattled  when  it  was 
followed  by  twenty.     "I  hope  you've  got  a  return 


CHARLES   GETS   AWAY   WITH    IT  207 

ticket,"  he  said,  as  Charles  handed  his  stake  —  forty 
louis  this  time  —  to  the  croupier.  That,  too,  was  lost. 

"This  is  too  exciting;  it's  bad  for  me,"  and  Bain 
walked  away,  to  watch  Charles  from  a  seat  on  a  couch 
against  the  wall.  He  could  n't  tell  from  that  distance 
how  much  was  being  lost  —  "or  won,"  Charles  said  to 
himself  as  he  dropped  a  couple  of  milks  into  his  third, 
the  empty  money-box.  He  left  the  table  and  walked 
over  to  Bain. 

'Cleaned  out?" 

Charles  reassured  him.  "As  a  matter  of  sober  fact, 
I've  won  exactly  ninety  louis  there." 

"Capital!   You'd  better  lend  it  me." 

"Of  course.  Here  you  are  —  a  couple  of  thousand 
francs." 

Bain  shook  his  head.  "No,  thanks;  I  did  n't  mean  it; 
I  was  joking.  I  won't  start  borrowing  in  the  Rooms. 
It's  the  devil.  Besides,  I  swore  I  wouldn't  lose  more 
than  a  hundred  pounds  this  visit  —  and  I  won't.  Luckily 
I've  still  got  some  of  it  left." 

"All  right;  as  you  like.  But  I  always  want  people  to 
borrow  of  me  in  the  Rooms  if  I'm  in  luck.  I  look  upon 
it  as  money  saved  against  the  time  when  the  luck 
changes.  Not  much  harm  happens  even  if  I  never  get 
it  back.  I  'd  have  lost  it  anyhow,  as  likely  as  not.  And 
I  can't  remember  any  time  when  I  was  n't  repaid  — 
sometimes,  I  confess,  when  I  'd  forgotten  all  about  it  — 
weeks  after.  Often  it  comes  in  jolly  handy." 

They  strolled  again  to  a  table.  It  was  getting  late. 
Four  o'clock  was  passed.  Charles  started  to  play:  he 
had  a  feeling  that  he'd  better  get  rid  of  his  capital. 


208  CAVIARE 

He  felt  that  it  would  be  lucky  to  do  so.  Ridiculous,  of 
course,  —  but  gamblers  have  these  superstitions.  Still, 
he  proceeded  according  to  his  programme.  Ten,  twenty, 
forty,  and  so  on.  Now  he  would  stake  on  a  dozen, 
then  on  a  column.  His  luck  continued.  Again  and  again 
he  would  reach  his  third  or  fourth  stake,  and  would 
then  win.  The  box  was  getting  heavy  and  almost  too 
full  to  receive  any  more.  Charles  looked  at  his  watch. 
"Ought  n't  you  to  go,"  Bain  asked, 
"I'll  run  through  a  series  once  more,"  Charles  an- 
swered. "I've  got  lots  of  time  —  five  minutes.  All  my 
things  are  at  the  station." 

Just  because  he  was  in  a  hurry  the  croupier  seemed 
to  spin  with  unusual  slowness.  Old  ladies  delayed  the 
game  by  their  wrangling. 

Ten  louis  on  the  first  dozen  went. 
Ten  louis  on  the  second  dozen  followed  it. 
The  forty  louis  was  no  more  successful. 
"Oh,  come  away!"  Bain  said.   "What's  the  good? 
You'll  lose  all  you've  won.    Besides,  you'll  miss  your 
train." 

Charles,  however,  was  bent  on  his  programme. 
Eighty  louis  went  on  the  third  dozen.  Number  eleven 
appeared. 

And  then  three  mille  notes.  Bain  had  n't  yet  seen 
Charles  stake  so  heavily.  A  young  German  couple  who 
had  been  watching  his  play  gasped.  The  notes  went  on 
the  third  dozen. 

"  Tout  va  aux  billets,"  the  croupiers  announced. 
Suddenly  Charles  noticed  that  he'd  made  a  mistake. 
His  note  should  have  been  on  the  second,  not  the  third. 


CHARLES    GETS   AWAY   WITH    IT  209 

dozen.  "Rien  ne  va  plus"  He  stretched  over,  and 
quickly  changed  them.  You're  allowed  to  if  the  ball  is 
still  moving. 

"  Vingt-neuf  noir  impair  et  passe." 

Charles's  alteration  had  cost  him  three  hundred  and 
sixty  pounds.  But  he  didn't  care.  He'd  managed  to 
lose  his  capital.  And,  anyhow,  the  change  from  the 
third  to  the  second  dozen  was  according  to  his  pro- 
gramme, and  it  was  on  that  programme  that  he  had 
won  whatever  he  had  won.  After  all,  too,  he  fancied 
he'd  made  a  good  deal  since  lunch. 

But  Bain  and  the  young  German  couple  were  both 
distressed. 

There  was  barely  time  for  the  train.  At  the  station 
Bowles  was  anxiously  undecided  as  to  whether  he 
should  n't  take  his  master's  things  out  of  the  compart- 
ment.  Perhaps  he'd  changed  his  mind  again! 

"Good-bye.    Bon  voyage.   Do  come  and  see  my  pic- 
tures at  the  end  of  the  month,  when  I'll  be  back." 
Charles  had  n't  told  Bain  he  was  ofiF  to  America. 

And  now,  truly,  farewell,  irresponsibility! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  IS  CARRIED  TOWARDS 
LONDON 

CHARLES  leant  back  in  his  seat.  He  had  a 
sickness  of  the  spirit.  A  little  sense  of  forebod- 
ing. Why,  he  could  n't  say.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  the  sun  was  setting.  Nowhere  more  than  on  the 
Riviera  does  the  sinking  sun  suggest  the  end  of  things, 
the  finish  of  happiness.  A  chill  falls  on  the  heart  when 
darkness  threatens.  If  the  hour  had  not  been  so  ridic- 
ulously early  he'd  have  called  for  his  bed  to  be  made 
up.  But  that  was  impossible  at  five  o'clock.  Nor  would 
he  sleep.  The  train  stopped  at  Monaco,  at  Cap  d'Ail. 
It  ran  past  Eze.  .  .  .  Nice  was  passed  and  then  Cannes. 
Agay  and  St.  Raphael  and  Fr6jus:  all  these  he  was 
seeing  for  the  last  time  —  or  not  seeing,  for  it  was  dark. 
He  would  n't,  he  thought,  be  again  on  this  happy  sea. 
There  was  no  one  on  the  train  to  whom  he  could  talk. 
Bowles  wasn't  society.  He  wished  he'd  never  come 
South.  And  then  he  remembered  his  three  full  money 
boxes,  here  in  the  suit-case  at  his  side.  They  were 
compensation. 

Came  the  first  call  for  dinner.  Charles  dined,  and, 
dining,  drank  with  the  definite  intention  of  sending  him- 
self to  sleep.  No  coffee,  but  a  liqueur.  It  seemed  such  a 
cold  world.  The  clouds  had  come  up  in  the  last  couple 
of  hours,  and  rain  was  spitting  against  the  window. 


CHARLES  IS  CARRIED  TOWARDS  LONDON    211 

What  was  Alison  doing?  Had  she  written  to  him? 
There  would  be  time,  just  time,  to  search  for  her  letter. 
Perhaps  there  'd  be  an  excuse  for  his  spending  the  day  in 
Paris  —  only  the  day,  since  to  stay  longer  would  mean 
the  missing  of  his  boat  for  New  York.  But  why  not  miss 
it?  Why  go?  Europe  was  his  home.  Would  n't  Mr. 
Gorham  alter  his  view  as  to  the  value  of  fifteen  hundred 
a  year  when,  shorn  of  his  capital,  he  rejoined  his  daugh- 
ter and  freedom?  Charles  knew  he  would  n't. 

That  was  the  worst  of  it.  Mr.  Gorham  had  Charles 
by  the  leg.  He  just  had  to  go.  Unless  something  had 
happened.  But  Charles  could  n't  hope  for  that. 

The  next  morning  Charles  told  Bowles  to  come  and 
sit  in  the  compartment  and  to  watch  over  his  baggage 
while  he  himself  drove  across  Paris  to  the  Chatham. 
He'd  rejoin  the  train  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.  You  may 
be  sure  he  carried  in  his  own  hand  the  small  bag  that 
contained  the  three  heavy  boxes. 

"No,  Mr.  Caerleon,  there  is  nothing  for  you." 

Charles  was  dumbfounded.  Surely  Alison  would 
have  written  to  him.  \\Tiat  should  he  do?  He  would 
go  to  the  Meuricc  and  inquire.  Perhaps  —  but,  no,  he 
would  n't  think.  "Hotel  Meurice,"  he  told  the  chauf- 
feur. 

But  even  as  the  taxi  slid  from  the  door  one  ran  out, 
"Stop!  stop!" 

The  car  waited. 

A  frock-coated  clerk  came  from  the  office.  "Mr. 
Caerleon,  a  telephone  message  came  for  you  just  now. 
I  was  just  sending  it  to  the  porter.  Here  it  is.   I  wrote 


212  CAVIARE 

it  down:  'Tell  Mr.  Caerleon  that  Miss  Gorham  will  see 
him  at  the  Gare  du  Nord.'" 

Charles's  heart  bounded.  "Quick  —  not  to  the  Meu- 
rice,  but  to  the  Gare  du  Nord!  Vite!  Vite!"  But 
minutes  had  been  lost. 

What  could  Alison's  message  mean?  Was  she  by 
any  chance  going  to  London?  It  was  unlikely,  impos- 
sible. But  he  was  to  see  her,  to  speak  to  her.  Perhaps 
she  would  let  him  send  Bowles  on  with  the  baggage. 
He  himself  could  follow  at  midday,  or  even  in  the  after- 
noon. At  the  worst,  if  only  the  taxi  would  hurry  now, 
he'd  have  several  minutes  with  her. 

Charles  found  himself  at  the  Gare  du  Nord  with 
ten  minutes  to  spare  —  and  there,  with  Mrs.  Phillips, 
was  Alison.  She  looked  a  little  worn  by  her  anxieties, 
Charles  thought,  and  he  could  not  help  a  feeling  that  her 
manner  was  less  cordial  than  he  had  thought  it.  So 
Alison  intended  he  should  feel.  She  had  not  forgotten, 
and  would  not  forgive,  what  she  had  seen  at  the  Gare 
de  Lyon.  It  was  one  of  those  misunderstandings  that  a 
word  would  clear  up  —  but  the  word  could  n't  be  said. 
She  smiled  at  Charles,  and  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  came  to  the  station  instead  of  writ- 
ing to  you,  because  I  am  always  nervous  about  the 
French  posts  —  and  if  my  letter  had  been  delayed  it 
would  n't  have  caught  you  before  you  sailed,  perhaps.  I 
had  n't  anything  of  importance  to  say  myself,  but  when 
I  opened  Papa's  blotter  yesterday  —  he  was  writing  at 
it  just  before  he  went  out  that  day  —  I  found  a  letter 
that's  evidently  for  you.  I  think  he  must  have  written 
it  just  before  he  went  to  Cook's.   He  did  n't  even  have 


CHARLES  IS  CARRIED  TOWARDS  LONDON    213 

time  to  address  an  envelope.  That's  why  I  saw  it  — 
there  were  only  a  few  lines.  Read  it  now." 

Charles  did  n't  want  to  read  anything  in  these  few 
minutes  during  which  he  could  speak  to  and  look  at 
Alison,  but  he  glanced  at  the  note.  He  saw  it  was  the 
letter  of  introduction  Mr.  Gorham  had  promised  him, 
and  he  realised  in  the  moment  of  looking  at  it  that  he 
had  justified  by  his  careless  folly  every  word  of  implied 
doubt  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  uttered  at  his  expense.  It 
was  with  the  aid  of  Mr.  Gorham's  introduction  that  he 
was  to  make  good  in  America  —  and  he  had  even 
forgotten  that  he  had  never  received  it.  But  he  turned 
to  Ahson :  — 

"Yes,  Miss  Gorham, —  your  father  promised  me 
that.  I  am  very  grateful  to  him  —  and  to  you.  But  I 
have  another  favour  to  ask — we  have  so  little  time. 
May  I  not  let  my  things  go  on  by  this  train  and  stop  and 
give  you  and  Mrs.  Phillips  lunch?  We  can  talk  then,  and 
I  can  learn  your  news  —  if  you  will  tell  it  me." 

An  Alison  not  too  proud,  not  wounded,  would  happily 
have  answered,  "Yes";  but  before  her  mind  sprang  up 
again  the  memory  of  a  blue  turban  and  brown  eyes. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Caerleon,  but  we  can't  lunch. 
We're  engaged,  aren't  we,  Constance?"  Mrs.  Phillips 
did  n't  like  it,  did  n't  understand,  but  she  nodded  assent. 
"  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  have  n't  any  news.  Papa 
hasn't  written  again.  We've  just  got  to  wait  —  and 
I  'm  having  quite  a  good  time.  Is  n't  that  so,  Constance? 
I  hope  you  had  a  good  time  at  Monte  Carlo,  Mr.  Caer- 
leon, and  I  hope  you  '11  have  a  pleasant  voyage  and  like 
America.  You  ought  to  get  in.  The  train '11  be  starting. 


214  CAVIARE 

I  thank  you  again,  both  on  Papa's  behalf  and  my  own, 
for  all  you  did  for  us.  Yes,  I  will  certainly  —  or  Papa 
will  —  let  you  know  what  happens.  You  will  cable  your 
address,  you  say?  But  that  does  n't  seem  worth  while. 
Good-bye." 

The  train  had  started. 

Charles  watched  as  long  as  he  could  Alison's  gra- 
cious figure.  Was  it  only  a  fancy  that  her  voice  and 
hand  trembled  a  little  at  those  last  words,  that  last 
handshake? 


BOOK  II 

CRESCENT   FORTUNE 


CHAPTER  I 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  OPENS  HIS  THREE  BOXES 

CHARLES  had  often  returned  to  London  from 
the  South,  from  Newmarket,  from  Paris,  in 
the  devil  of  a  hole  financially.  He  had  never 
returned  with  the  kind  of  worries  that  preoccupied  him 
now.  At  least,  to-day,  he  had  n't  to  fret  about  money. 
He  patted  the  bag  at  his  side  and  wondered  how  much 
he  'd  brought  back,  A  great  deal  more  than  the  sum  he  'd 
taken  with  him.  That,  at  least,  was  certain.  But  still 
he  had  n't  an  easy  mind.  Know  that  you  can't  pay 
what  you  owe  at  the  moment  you  should  pay  it,  and  you 
are  sure  that  no  anxiety,  no  sorrow  can  equal  your  un- 
happiness.  And  toothache:  that  has  much  the  same 
effect.  Or  you  are  in  love.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  is  the 
worst  of  all.  Not  actually  to  know.  So  Charles  felt. 

"Charing  Cross." 

Charles  looked  at  the  familiar,  grey,  smoky  station. 
He  wished  he  'd  asked  someone  to  meet  him  —  someone, 
anyone,  to  take  his  mind  off  his  own  affairs.  Leaving 
Bowles  to  look  after  his  baggage,  he  went  off  inconti- 
nently to  his  club  for  his  letters.  Thank  Heaven!  all 
three  of  the  letters  from  Monte  Carlo  were  waiting  his 
arrival. 

He  looked  round  his  flat.  If  you  must  live  in  London, 
Mount  Street  is  n't  a  bad  pitch.  But  somehow  to-night 
he  did  n't  care  for  it.  That  Conder  fan,  that  early  Orpen, 


2i8  CAVIARE 

that  Anquetin  —  they  w«re  all  charming,  but  they  left 
him  cold.  And,  anyhow,  he  was  going  away.  He  wished 
he'd  gone  to  a  hotel  rather  than  come  here.  Bowles 
could  have  fetched  the  other  things  that  he'd  want  in 
America.  Frank  with  himself,  he  knew  that  it  was  that 
he  cared  too  much  for  his  home  to  leave  it  happily,  too 
much  for  his  habits  to  relinquish  them  easily.  He  had 
been  used  to  Bowles  calling  him  in  the  morning.  To- 
morrow would  be  the  last  time  that  that  would  happen. 

No,  he  would  n't  dine  at  home.  He  'd  go  out.  Any- 
where to  escape  his  own  thoughts,  to  get  away  from 
fancies  about  the  future.  Should  he  open  his  three  boxes 
and  see  how  much  he'd  made?  No,  not  now.  When  he 
came  home  after  dinner — when  he  could  count  it  all 
out  undisturbed.  Locking  them  up  in  his  desk  he  turned 
to  dress,  and  almost  before  Bowles  had  arrived  he  was 
ready  to  go  out.  No,  not  to  his  club.  Men  would  be 
there  who'd  want  an  explanation  of  his  untimely  return. 
At  the  Carlton  grill  he'd  have  both  food  and  peace. 

In  these  troubled  hours  Charles  put  everything  off. 
He  had  no  assurance.  Dinner  finished,  he  avoided  going 
home.  He  sat  for  a  couple  of  hours  in  the  Empire,  and 
then  for  another  hour  in  King  Street  eating  oysters  and 
pondering  the  future.  A  miserable  business! 

Charles  did  n't  know  which  box  he  opened  first  —  he 
did  n't  know  whether  it  was  the  first  he'd  filled,  the 
second,  or  the  last.  He  threw  back  the  lid  and  emptied 
its  golden  contents  onto  his  bed.  But  they  were  com- 
paratively few.  What  would  count  were  the  hillets,  and 
they  did  n't  fall  out  so  readily.  Moreover,  they  were 
folded  up  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  He  could  n't  tell  whether 


CHARLES   OPENS   HIS   THREE   BOXES      219 

they  were  five  hundred  francs  or  a  thousand  until  he  'd 
unfolded  them.  Sometimes  two  were  folded  together. 
Some  which  were  at  tlie  very  bottom  had  to  be  dislodged 
with  a  button-hook.  At  last,  however,  they  were  all  care- 
fully arranged.  So  many  piles  of  gold  which  would  per- 
sist in  falling  about  on  the  coverlet,  but  each  of  which 
was  ten  louis  high ;  so  many  notes  each  for  five  hundred 
francs,  so  many  of  a  thousand.  The  contents  of  the  box 
were  worth  nine  hundred  and  eighteen  pounds.  Charles 
had  experience,  he'd  been  used  to  winning  and  losing 
large  sums,  but  this  result  made  him  gasp.  Which  box 
was  it  he'd  opened.'*  If  it  were  the  last,  then  the  others 
would  yield  more.  And  surely  it  was  the  last :  it  was  not 
so  very  full.  The  truth  was  he  had  n't  had  the  slightest 
idea  of  what  he'd  won.  He'd  not  even  attempted  to 
keep  any  record.  Most  of  the  time  he'd  been  thinking 
of  something  else.  Money  had  gone  on  to  the  table,  and 
beyond  seeing  it  go  or  taking  off  his  stake  and  his  win- 
nings he  had  paid  no  real  attention.  Perhaps  it  was  as 
well.  He  might  have  been  tempted  to  play  differently  if 
he  had  known  how  much  he  was  making. 

The  same  process  was  repeated  with  the  second  box. 
Its  yield  —  Charles  gasped  again  —  was  more  than  twice 
as  generous.  Its  contents  were  far  more  closely  packed. 
It  was  the  one  that  he  had  taken  so  much  trouble  to 
manipulate.  Roughly,  it  worked  out  at  two  thousand 
three  hundred  pounds. 

And  the  third.  It  need  n't  contain  as  much  as  the 
second  to  make  his  total  winnings  five  thousand  pounds. 
The  gold  was  taken  out  first  and  reckoned:  the  total 
was  now  three  thousand  three  hundred  and  twenty -two 


220  CAVIARE 

pounds.  Charles  was  becoming  excited.  He  unfolded 
each  note  separately  and  added  its  value  to  the  total. 
Gradually  it  increased,  twenty  and  forty  pounds  at  a 
time.  And  yet  the  box  seemed  full  of  folded  papers.  But 
by  the  time  five  thousand  was  reached  only  three  or 
four  were  left.  Whether  five  thousand  pounds  in  abso- 
lute winnings  was  actually  reached  would  depend  on 
their  denomination.  Charles  was  becoming  greedy  now: 
he  wanted  the  five  thousand  to  be  exceeded  not  only  by 
the  two  hundred  with  which  he  'd  started  his  play,  but 
by  the  sixty  he'd  given  away  so  lightly  in  the  Abbaye, 
and  also  by  the  amount  he'd  spent  in  Paris.  The  total 
was  now  five  thousand  three  hundred  and  fifty-two:  his 
anxiety  would  be  answered  by  the  amount  in  this  last 
fold.  It  proved  to  be  two  notes,  one  for  a  thousand,  the 
other  for  five  hundred  francs.  The  five  thousand  had 
been  passed  —  by  twelve  pounds.  And  he  had  even  had 
the  foresight  to  allow  for  the  exchange. 

Charles  thought  to  himself  that  bed  would  be  a  good 
place  now.  But  first  he  must  write  to  Alison,  that  she 
might  get  his  letter  in  the  evening  of  to-morrow  — 
to-day,  by  now.  There  was  nothing  he  could  say  to  her, 
save  to  repeat  that  he  begged  for  her  news  when  she 
could  send  any,  that  he  should  cable  his  address  to  thank 
her.  A  poor  letter  —  yet  to  Alison  when  it  came  it 
brought  more  happiness  than  she  would  confess  to 
herself.  She  kept  it.  Mrs.  Phillips  was  not  even  told  of 
its  arrival. 

And  then  the  money  had  to  be  put  together.  The  gold 
was  tied  in  a  handkerchief;  the  notes  were  arranged 
carefully:  they  made  a  tidy  heap!   Two  other  letters 


CHARLES   OPENS   HIS   THREE    BOXES      221 

should  be  written.  With  five  thousand  pounds  now  in  his 
hands  Charles  was  beginning  to  feel  himself  a  business 
man.  The  letters  were  identical  in  their  terms.  They 
said  that  Mr.  Charles  Caerleon  had  in  French  gold  and 
paper  (he  even  gave  the  proportions :  someone  had  told 
him  that  the  paper  was  worth  more  than  the  gold)  the 
sum  of  one  hundred  and  forty-two  thousand  five  hundred 
and  twenty  francs,  and  he  invited  an  offer  for  it.  One 
letter  went  to  Messrs.  Thomas  Cook  and  Son,  the  other 
to  the  Credit  Lyonnais.  They  asked  for  telephone  an- 
swers before  half-past  nine.  You  see  he  had  to  keep  his 
appointment  with  Mr.  Pyeman  at  quarter-past  ten  — 
and  then  immediately  afterwards  to  go  to  Euston. 

Leaving  a  note  that  he  was  to  be  called  at  seven,  he 
went  to  bed,  and  at  once  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  II 

MR.   PTEMAN  —  WHO  ADVANCES  NOTHING 

THERE  are  solicitors  —  and  solicitors.  Unhappily, 
the  first  class  is  far  less  numerous  than  the 
second,  and  unhappily  again,  Mr.  Pyeman,  in 
spite  of  his  "old  family"  connection,  was  of  the  second. 
That  is  not  to  say  that  he  was  dishonest.  He  was  n't. 
To  stray  from  the  path  of  the  strictest  legal  rectitude 
would  be  with  so  good  a  business  dishonest,  indeed; 
worse,  it  would  be  stupid.  Mr.  Pyeman's  firm  always 
let  you  have  the  residue  of  the  estate.  You  got  some- 
thing. And  you  may  be  sure  that  he  kept  his.  clients' 
money  in  a  separate  account.  Mr.  Pyeman  was  wanting 
in  no  outward,  visible,  tangible  sign  of  legal  responsi- 
bility. 

He  even  kept  Charles  waiting  the  regulation  ten 
minutes.  Charles  thought  he  could  hear  his  voice 
through  the  wooden  partition  droning  away  in  an 
unnecessary  dictation —  "to  attending  you  on  the  tele- 
phone and  suggesting  the  advisability  of  an  early  inter- 
view," and  so  on.  But  it  wasn't  Mr.  Pyeman:  it  was 
a  clerk.  Mr.  Pyeman  was  in  an  inner  chamber,  from 
which,  as  Charles  entered,  issued  the  junior  partner,  a 
little  ferret. 

"Well,  Mr.  Caerleon,  it  is  unusual  surely  to  see  you 
in  London  at  this  time  of  the  year.  I  thought  you  were 
in  Monte  Carlo  always  till  the  spring.  You  young  men 


MR.  PYEMAN  — WHO  ADVANCES   NOTHING    223 

have  a  good  time  —  we  poor  lawyers  have  to  stop  at 
home  and  do  the  work."  And  Mr.  Pyeman  sank  back, 
folded  his  hands  on  his  severely  fanciful  black-and-white 
waistcoat,  and  surveyed  Charles  with  a  steely  eye,  as 
who  should  say :  "  He  wants  money,  but  he 's  come  to  the 
wrong  shop.  He  don't  deserve  it,  and  he  shan't  have  it." 

Generally,  I  confess,  when  Charles  had  to  interview 
Mr.  Pyeman  he  felt  at  a  disadvantage.  It  was  like 
interviewing  a  bank  manager.  He  usually  had  something 
to  ask,  and  Mr.  Pyeman  succeeded  always  —  even 
against  Charles's  better  judgment  —  in  making  him  feel 
that  it  was  a  favour  that  was  being  conferred.  Every- 
thing was  "rather  irregular,  you  know,  Mr.  Caerleon. 
We'll  do  it,  but  it's  irregular."  This  time,  however, 
Charles  had  plenty  of  courage.  There,  against  his  heart, 
were  five  Bank  of  England  notes  each  for  a  thousand 
pounds.  Indeed,  they  gave  him  so  much  courage  that 
he  was  unable  to  resist  the  temptation  —  having  so 
much  time  on  his  hands !  —  to  take  a  rise  out  of  Mr. 
Pyeman's  pomposity. 

"I  came  home  earlier  than  usual,  Mr.  Pyeman.  The 
truth  is,  I  want  to  go  to  America  at  once,  and  I  came  to 
ask  you  if  you  could  help  me  — "  Charles  paused  with 
malice.  He  thought  Mr.  Pyeman  would  jump  in,  and 
he  was  right. 

"I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Caerleon.  I  told  you  I  couldn't 
advise  the  trustees"  —  a  mere  form  that;  the  actual 
trustees  were  too  incapable  of  business  to  do  other  than 
they  were  told  —  "I  told  you  I  couldn't  advise  the 
trustees  to  make  you  any  more  advances.  Besides,  from 
what  funds  could  they  do  it?   I  think,  if  I  may  say  so, 


224  CAVIARE 

they  've  been  patient,  Mr.  Caerleon,  perhaps  too  patient. 
Later  on  you  may  regret  it."  Charles  made  as  if  to 
speak.  "No,  Mr,  Caerleon,  I'm  afraid  it's  no  use.  A 
young  man  in  your  position  should  either  work  for  more 
money  or  he  should  live  reasonably  on  what  he  has. 
You  have  n't  any  right  —  and  I  speak  as  I  am  sure  your 
dear  father  would  have  wished  me  to  speak  —  to  spend 
all  your  time  in  Paris  and  Monte  Carlo.  Why  don't 
you  go  and  live  at  Ballyhackle?  "  —  a  little  place  of  his 
very  own  that  Charles  owned,  neglected,  if  the  truth  be 
told,  and  let  when  he  could,  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland. 

"I  don't  go  and  live  at  Ballyhackle  for  what  I  con- 
sider a  very  good  reason:  I  should  be  bored  to  death 
there.  I  should  hate  the  people;  I'm  afraid  they  would 
n't  like  me.  I  should  take  to  drink  — " 

"Well,  no  one  suggests  your  living  there  all  the  year 
round.  But  I  've  told  you  again  and  again  that  you  can't 
go  on  as  you  're  doing.  You  're  ruining  yourself.  Every- 
thing you  could  touch  you  've  spent,  and  Heaven  knows 
how  much  you  owe !  I  did  n't  want  to  mention  it,  but 
there's  my  own  firm's  account  against  you.  It's  been 
running  on  for  years.  So  you  can  see  that  it's  no  use 
asking  my  assistance." 

Mr.  Pyeman  looked  the  part  to  the  life.  He  had  blown 
off  steam,  figuratively  and  actually.  He  was  genially 
saturnine.  Charles,  for  his  part,  succeeded  in  looking 
crestfallen. 

"I  can  see  that,  Mr.  Pyeman.  I  won't  ask  for  it. 
And  you  do  seriously  advise  me  to  go  and  live  at  Bally- 
hackle? I  don't  think  it  would  be  very  nice  at  this  time 
of  the  year.   Are  n't  there  always  lots  of  wet  mists  in 


MR.  PYEMAN  — WHO   ADVANCES  NOTHING    225 

Ireland?  "  And  he  looked  out  on  to  the  soiled  green  and 
the  soot-laden  air  of  Lincoln's  Inn. 

"There  are  a  great  many  things  I  don't  like  in  London, 
Mr.  Caerleon,  but  I  stop  and  do  my  duty  all  the  same." 

Charles  looked  at  his  watch.  Being  pompous  always 
takes  a  long  time.  "Well,  Mr.  Pyeman,  it  happens  that 
I  did  n't  come  in  to  see  if  I  could  induce  you  to  get  my 
uncles  to  advance  me  any  more  money.  I  came  in  to  say 
that  as  I  was  going  to  America,  —  this  very  day,  by  the 
way,  —  I  wanted  to  know  what  the  amount  of  your  ac- 
count against  me  was  and  to  ask  you  to  help  me  by  tell- 
ing me  as  nearly  as  you  can  how  much  I  can  really  count 
on  a  year  after  deducting  all  the  interests  and  charges 
I  've  got  to  pay  —  through  my  own  idiocies,  I  '11  allow, 
if  you  like." 

To  say  that  Mr.  Pyeman  was  astonished  was  to  put 
it  mildly.  However,  he  was  n't  going  to  turn  good 
money  away. 

"You  must  hurry,  if  you  please,"  Charles  put  in. 

"Bring  me  Mr.  Charles  Caerleon's  account  at  once," 
Mr.  Pyeman  told  a  clerk  who  came  at  his  call.  "It's 
made  out,  for  I  had  it  prepared  when  Mr.  Caerleon 
wrote  a  couple  of  days  ago." 

"That  was  kind  of  you,"  Charles  said.  He  did  n't 
blame  Mr.  Pyeman  for  taking  him  at  his  word  —  but  all 
the  same,  he  wished  that  he  had  n't  given  waj^  to  tempta- 
tion and  embroidered  what  he'd  got  to  ask  with  this 
flourish  about  the  account.  Perhaps,  though,  as  Mr. 
Pyeman  was  evidently  going  to  ask  to  be  paid,  it  was 
all  to  the  good  that  he'd  forestalled  him. 

"And  what  does  it  come  to?"  he  asked. 


226  CAVIARE 

"Ninety-seven  pounds  and  nineteen  shillings  —  say 
ninety-five  pounds,"  said  Mr.  Pyeman. 

"No,  we'll  say  ninety-seven  pounds  and  nineteen 
shillings  exactly,  if  you  don't  mind,  Mr.  Pyeman.  And 
if  you'll  throw  in  this  interview  and  write  across  the 
bottom  the  words,  'up  to  and  including  to-day's  inter- 
view,' and  if  you'll  add  the  date,  I'll  pay  you  here  and 
now  in  cash.  You  can  no  doubt  give  me  change  for  this 
note.  And  please  tell  me  —  I  can  only  stop  a  very  few 
minutes  —  about  my  income,  my  future  income." 

Mr.  Pyeman  was  too  astonished  at  what  had  just 
happened  to  be  as  calm  and  as  coherent  as  usual;  he 
started  off  on  explanations.  He  had  also,  it  appeared, 
in  expectation  of  being  asked  for  more  money,  pre- 
pared a  schedule  showing  where  Charles  stood.  Charles 
stopped  the  explanations. 

"I  want  it  in  the  least  possible  number  of  words  and 
in  the  simplest  way,  please.  That's  all  I've  room  for. 
I  can  take  away  what  you  've  written  there  and  digest 
it  on  the  boat." 

Mr.  Pyeman's  information  amounted  to  the  state- 
ment that  between  now  and  the  end  of  the  year  Charles 
would  have  paid  into  his  bank  exactly  three  hundred 
pounds.  On  the  first  of  January  next  a  new  year  would 
begin,  and  with  it,  if  he  did  n't  further  embarrass  him- 
self, he  'd  enter  into  a  minimum  of  a  steady  twelve  hun- 
dred a  year.   It  could  n't  be  much  more. 

"Three  hundred  pounds  is  n't  a  good  deal  to  set  up 
house  with,"  said  Charles  to  himself  as  he  drove  to 
Euston.  "And  twelve  hundred  is  n't  much  of  an  in- 
come. Still,  it 's  better  than  nothing.  And  if  I  don't 


MR.  PYEMAN  — WHO   ADVANCES   NOTHING    227 

lose  this  five  thousand  here,  that  'II  add  about  two  hun- 
dred a  year  more.   We  ought  to  be  able  to  live." 

Bowles,  the  richer  for  several  discarded  suits  of 
clothes,  a  handsome  certificate  of  character,  and  a  ten- 
pound  note,  alone  saw  Charles  off.  "I  wonder  what 
game  he's  up  to,"  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  on  his  heel 
and  walked  out  of  the  station. 


CHAPTER  III 

IN   WHICH   THE   MAURETANIA    IS   NOT   DESCRIBED 

ON  board  ship  Charles  was  thought  an  odd  fish. 
His  httle  title  had  secured  him  some  con- 
sideration. Of  course  he  had  a  room  to  him- 
self. Next  to  his  deck-chair  sat  an  old  apple-faced  Bos- 
tonian.  I  won't  tell  you  his  name  —  but  Charles  is  by- 
way of  saying  prayers  for  him  every  night.  It  was  this 
white-haired,  cheerful  gentleman  who  first  taught  him 
the  real  meaning  of  American  hospitality.  Mr.  Gorham 
had  been  hospitable,  but  in  a  diflFerent  sense.  His  was 
the  hospitahty  of  exuberant  good-fellowship.  That  sort 
does  n't  always  ring  true.  We  have  too  much  of  it  in 
England.  But  the  hospitality  that  Charles  now  for  the 
first  time  experienced  was  of  a  kind  that  America  alone 
knows  how  to  grow.  I  '11  tell  you.  Charles  was  a  young 
man.  A  day  or  two  out  he  complained  to  his  neighbour, 
in  answer  to  some  polite  inquiry,  that  his  room  was  so 
far  forward  that  he  got  all  the  pitching  and  tossing 
there  was,  and  that  he  dressed  squeamishly  in  conse- 
quence. His  neighbour  was  old  —  white-haired,  as  I  've 
said;  perhaps  seventy-five.  "Now,  that's  too  bad,"  he 
answered.  "  But  I  '11  tell  you  what  we  '11  do :  we  '11  change 
rooms.  I've  got  one  on  your  deck  but  more  amidships 
—  an  outside  one,  too,  like  yours.  You  see  nothing 
upsets  me.  I  shall  be  perfectly  comfortable.  The  steward 
can  soon  alter  our  things." 


THE   MAURETANIA  IS   NOT  DESCRIBED    229 

Of  course  Charles  would  n't  have  it  —  but  he  looked 
at  the  old  man  and  thanked  him,  and  wondered  whether 
there  were  many  more  at  home  like  him.  Later  he 
learned  there  were;  he  learned  that  there  is,  and  can  be, 
no  trouble  too  great  for  a  good  American  to  take  for  the 
stranger  with  whom  he's  become  acquainted  and  whom 
he  likes. 

But  to  return  to  Charles  being  thought  an  odd  fish. 
He  had  so  much  to  think  of,  and  he  felt  generally  so 
strange,  that  he  made  practically  no  acquaintances  on 
board.  He  walked  by  himself,  and  when  he  was  in  his 
cabin  he  was  either  asleep  or  he  was  reading  "Evan 
Harrington."  Everyone  else  was  reading  "Jenny  Ger- 
hardt,"  or  Anthony  Hope's  last  book.  He  hardly  went 
into  the  smoke-room.  Its  atmosphere  repelled  him. 
Besides,  no  society  that  was  n't  largely  feminine  could 
hold  Charles's  attention  for  more  than  a  few  minutes. 
However,  one  night  after  dinner,  when  it  was  too  cold 
to  sit  on  deck  and  all  the  seats  in  the  lounge  seemed 
engaged,  he  did  go  into  the  smoke-room  and  watched 
the  auction  pool.  I  suppose  the  gambler's  instinct  was 
aroused  in  him  —  or  perhaps  he  was  both  amused  and 
piqued  by  the  knowledge  that  to  the  men  around  him 
his  arrival  was  something  to  be  surprised  at,  and  that 
they  were  at  least  sure  that  he  would  n't  take  a  hand. 
The  facetiousness  of  the  auctioneer  bored  him  stiff,  but 
suddenly  he  heard  himself  bidding  for  the  high  field. 
Every^one  in  the  room  turned  round  to  look.  "God 
bless  my  soul!"  they  seemed  to  say.  Having  started, 
he  went  on.  Someone  else  wanted  it  —  badly !  But  then 
so  did  Charles  —  although  he  was  n't  sure  what  it  was. 


230  CAVIARE 

Encouraged  by  the  plaudits  of  the  crowd  his  adversary 
went  on:  Charles  didn't  secure  the  prize  till  he'd 
reached  twenty-three  pounds.  Much  applause.  Rising, 
he  slipped  away.  He  did  n't  like  his  surroundings.  He 
went  to  his  stateroom.  It  was  late  and  he  went  to  bed. 
Half  an  hour  later  he  was  asleep.  Came  a  knock  at  his 
door.  Someone  had  been  sent  from  the  smoke-room  to 
collect  the  twenty-three  pounds.  You  see,  they  thought 
Charles  must  be  drunk;  they  'd  discussed  his  sudden 
outbreak,  and  feared  that  if  they  did  n't  get  the  money 
now  he  'd  honestly  disclaim  any  knowledge  of  the  whole 
thing  when  morning  came. 

And -when  morning  did  come  and  Charles,  who  had 
been  lazy  and  had  stopped  in  bed  till  after  midday, 
making  his  first  appearance  at  the  luncheon  bugle,  went 
on  deck,  he  found  himself  the  hero  of  the  ship.  The  high 
field  had  won —  the  biggest  pool  of  the  passage.  "That 
does  n't  seem  to  me  to  call  for  much  intelligence," 
Charles  said  to  himself.  "Any  fool  could  tell  we'd 
have  a  good  run  in  weather  like  this."  He  was  a  young 
traveller. 

Anyway,  though,  he'd  paid  his  passage  —  his  passage 
out.  Whatever  happened  he  must  keep  enough  to  pay 
it  back.  But  that  did  n't  trouble  him.  This  new  evid- 
ence of  his  good  luck  confirmed  him  in  the  belief  that 
for  the  moment,  at  least,  he  was  not  to  be  beaten.  Sup- 
posing, though,  that  the  luck  had  been  the  other  way! 
It  was  n't  a  pleasant  thought.  Still,  he  did  n't  dismiss  it. 
Instead  of  having  five  thousand  pounds  in  his  pocket, 
instead  of  having  paid  all  his  expenses  in  the  South  and 


THE   MAURETANIA  IS   NOT   DESCRIBED    231 

in  Paris,  instead  of  having  paid  Mr.  Pyeman's  outrageous 
bill,  he'd  now  be  as  uncomfortable  as  his  temperament 
would  allow.  Surely  he  'd  be  worrying.  He  'd  be  watch- 
ing jealously  the  growth  of  his  wine  bill.  And  then  he 
fell  to  thinking  of  what  his  luck  at  Monte  Carlo  really 
meant.  It  was  simple  enough.  He 'd  risked  two  hundred 
pounds  and  he'd  won  five  thousand.  He 'd  pulled  off  a 
chance  the  odds  against  which  were  twenty-five  to  one. 
Such  things  are  done.  But  not  often.  The  pitcher  had 
gone  often  enough  to  the  well.  At  each  journey  the  odds 
in  Charles's  favour  were  five  to  two  —  but  there  were 
so  many  journeys.  And  there  was  zero.  "If  anyone 
ever  heard  of  my  luck,"  Charles  said  to  himself,  "I'd 
have  to  spend  an  hour  or  so  explaining  to  him  that  such 
things  happen  once  in  a  blue  moon.  That  it's  pure 
chance.  I  might  so  easily  have  been  down  and  out  five 
minutes  after  I  first  went  in."  In  fact,  he  had  often 
played  the  same  game  before  —  with  exactly  that 
speedy  and  unhappy  result. 

And  in  spite  of  his  five  thousand  pounds  Charles  came 
soberly  to  the  conclusion  that  gambling  is  a  mug's 
game. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IN   WHICH   THE  AMAZEMENT   OF  THE   AMIABLE   CHARLES 
AT  A  NEW  YORK  HOTEL  IS  NOT  MADE  ENOUGH  OF 

CHARLES  found  himself  wondering  a  couple  of 
mornings  later  why  so  much  nonsense  is  talked 
about  the  discomforts  of  the  New  York  customs 
examinations.  Of  course  it  is  n't  very  agreeable.  How 
could  it  be?  But  it's  about  as  agreeable  as  it  can  be 
made  in  this  dishonest  world.  Mr.  Loeb  and  his  assist- 
ants know  their  business.  The  assistants  are  n't  deferen- 
tial; amenity  is  n't  their  long  suit —  but  then,  America 
is  a  democratic  country,  and  their  patience  is  sorely 
and  continually  tried.  If  an  Englishman  is  a  fairly  good 
mixer  he  '11  get  through  all  right  —  both  on  the  wharf, 
and  later. 

And  anyhow,  no  Englishman  ought  to  complain. 
When  he  reaches  the  wharf  his  soul  ought  still  to  be 
full  of  that  wonderful  passage  up  the  Bay.  No,  not 
the  Statue  of  Liberty,  which  is  rotten,  but  all  that 
wonderful  forest  of  tall  buildings,  challenging  the 
sky.  New  York,  he  learns  for  the  first  time,  has  a 
beauty  equal  to  that  of  Rome,  of  Venice,  of  Paris,  — 
a  beauty  that  is  actual,  the  greater  since  it  is  living, 
vital,  of  to-day. 

The  worst  I  can  say  of  Charles  is  that  he  was  chilled. 
He  encountered  no  difficulties,  but  he  missed  all  sorts 
of  things  —  intangible  many  of  them,  things  of  atmo- 


CHARLES'S   AMAZEMENT  233 

sphere  —  to  which  he  was  used.  Nobody  said  "Sir." 
And  people  looked  at  his  eyeglass. 

His  old  Bostonian  friend  had  advised  him  to  stop  at 
the  Knickerbocker  Hotel.  Driving  there,  some  —  not 
much,  but  some — of  his  good  opinion  of  New  York's 
beauty  was  chipped  off.  An  American  who  goes  through 
the  mean  streets  near  Waterloo  or  Paddington  gets 
the  same  feeling.  Luckily,  though,  in  England  there 
are  n't  so  many  of  them  between  the  station  and  the 
traveller's  haven.  And  what  there  are  are  n't  so  fierce. 
An  Englishman  may  be  forgiven  for  being  a  little  chilled, 
a  little  frightened.   It  is  all  very  hard. 

And  this  was  Alison's  country  —  almost  Alison's 
home.  Charles  was  n't  so  lazy  but  that  he'd  looked  up 
the  distance  between  New  York  and  Philadelphia.  He 
knew  that  the  ladies  of  Philadelphia  would  come  into 
New  York  for  a  luncheon,  a  day's  shopping,  a  matinee. 
This  savage  town  was  the  cradle  of  Alison's  grace.  It 
hardly  seemed  possible.  So  he  thought  as  his  taxi-cab 
jolted  and  twisted  in  and  out  from  the  Cunard  wharf  to 
Forty-second  Street.  I  wish,  indeed,  that  I  had  the 
space  to  tell  you  all  that  he  thought  now  and  hereafter 
of  America.  If  there  is  one  thing  that  if  to-morrow  I 
became  a  daily  newspaper  proprietor  I  should  at  once 
do,  it  is  to  have  always —  not  now  and  then,  but  always 
—  a  man  going  to  America  for  the  first  time —  if  my 
paper  were  English :  a  man  going  to  Europe  for  the  first 
time  —  if  my  paper  were  American.  Every  star  reporter 
I  had  should  go  through  that  mill.  Things  change,  and 
people's  points  of  view  change,  and,  anyhow,  there's 
always  so  much  to  write  about.    Fancy  what  a  New 


234  CAVIARE 

Yorker  must  think  when  he  finds  himself  in  an  Eng- 
lish hotel  in  Liverpool,  or  Southampton,  or  Plymouth. 
Fancy!  I  don't  think  any  American  has  ever  been  so 
impolite  as  to  say. 

But  Charles.  His  taxi  swung  round  the  corner  and 
deposited  him  at  the  Knickerbocker  portal.  He  learned 
afterwards  that  there  was  n't  any  reason  for  his  being 
amazed.  The  splendour  of  the  place  was  n't  peculiar. 
There  were  a  dozen  such  gorgeous  hostelries  within  half 
an  hour's  walk.  It  was  n't  so  much  the  splendour  that 
impressed  him  as  the  taste.  .  .  . 

It  was  nine  o'clock:  he'd  had  no  proper  breakfast,  so 
that  after  being  shown  to  his  room  by  a  sleek  boy  with 
an  Irish  accent  (who  confessed  later  on  to  having  been 
in  the  country  only  six  weeks,  but  who  already  seemed 
to  own  it,  so  rapidly  does  New  York  assimilate  its  immi- 
grants) Charles  started  to  look  for  the  cofifee-room! 
Coffee-room!  Such  things  don't  exist  in  these  marble 
palaces !  But,  in  the  first  place,  he  had  to  get  downstairs. 
He  found  he  was  on  the  eleventh  storey.  He  thought 
he'd  use  the  stairs  for  the  sake  of  geographical  educa- 
tion. But  the  stairs  were  n't  so  easy  to  find.  The  one 
unavoidable  thing  was  a  young  lady  in  the  neatest  of 
what  he  learned  afterwards  to  describe  as  shirtwaists, 
who  sat  at  a  desk,  obviously  registered  his  appearance 
in  her  mind,  and  said  "Good  morning"  as  if  she'd 
decided  to  take  him  under  her  special  protection,  and  at 
the  same  time  thought  he  was  rather  a  joke.  She  was 
the  "floor  clerk,"  and  she  did  n't  approve  of  his  using 
the  stairs  anyway,  and  told  him  to  ring  for  the  "eleva- 
tor."   He  did.    It  slid  rapidly  into  view  and  Charles 


CHARLES'S  AMAZEMENT  235 

descended  in  the  care  of  yet  another  youth,  who  expati- 
ated pleasantly  on  the  beauty  of  the  climate  and  the  fact 
that  Charles  was  obviously  English.  He,  too,  seemed  to 
think  it  a  joke.  One  of  Charles's  great  American  pre- 
occupations, by  the  way,  was  exactly  what  to  do  with 
this  army  of  boys.  Were  you  to  give  them  a  quarter 
every  time  you  looked  at  or  spoke  to  one  of  them,  or 
did  you  save  the  quarters  up  for  one  supreme  largesse 
when  you  went  away?  And  some  of  them  looked  too 
grand  either  for  quarters  or  for  grubby  dollar  notes. 
There  is  a  certain  "Captain"  of  boys,  a  young  man 
with  immaculately  brushed  yellow  hair,  the  very  mem- 
ory of  whom  frightens  Charles  to  this  day.  He  had  so 
much  dignity,  and  he  was  so  polite.  How  much  ought 
one  to  give  him?  Charles  found  it  was  of  no  use  to  ask 
Americans.  They  did  n't  seem  to  know  anything  about 
it.  Some  of  them  are  under  the  fond  delusion  that  no 
one  either  expects  or  would  take  a  tip  in  America. 

At  length  Charles  was  in  the  cafe.  "Tea,  please," 
he  said,  but  that  proved  to  be  an  insufficient  instruction. 
Would  he  have  China  Tea,  or  English  Breakfast  Tea, 
or  tea  of  this  kind  or  of  that?  There  seemed  to  be  a 
dozen  varieties.  The  choice  added  a  new  burden  to  the 
day.  And  then  the  embarrassment  of  breakfast  foods  — 
of  cereals,  of  fruits,  of  sausages,  of  chops,  of  eggs,  of 
steaks.  Never  in  his  life  had  the  Amiable  Charles  felt 
so  small,  so  insignificant,  so  much  an  unimportant  cog 
in  a  very  great  wheel. 

Charles  got  out  alive  at  half-past  ten.  It  was  a  Tues- 
day. He  would  spend  the  day  trying  to  get  some  sort 
of  a  line  on  New  York.   He  would  n't  deliver  his  letter 


236  CAVIARE 

of  introduction  till  the  next  day.  In  the  mean  time 
he  'd  walk  about,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  map  and  a  guide- 
book would  see  everything  there  was  to  see. 

"You'd  better  take  an  umbrella,"  one  of  the  hundred 
elevator  boys  told  him. 


CHAPTER  V 

DEAD   MUSEUMS   AND   MILES   OF   MISERY 

THE  umbrella  was  quite  unnecessary.  Never  in 
his  life  had  Charles  tasted  such  an  air,  bathed 
in  such  happy  and  vigorous  sun.  The  atmo- 
sphere was  that  of  the  Alps  when  snow  is  first  on  the 
mountains  and  the  sun  shines  out  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
And  against  that  sky  buildings  stood  —  sometimes 
frankly  ugly,  sometimes  beautiful  as  St.  Mark's,  but 
always  fit  for  their  purpose.  He  walked  on  Fifth  Avenue 
and  was  astonished,  and  on  Broadway  and  was  amazed, 
and  in  the  farther,  the  mean,  streets,  and  was  appalled. 
City  of  contrasts,  indeed! 

After  a  time  he  was  hungry  and  went  into  a  restau- 
rant whose  name  seemed  to  him  familiar.  He'd  read 
of  it  in  some  American  novel.  The  waiters  were  Irish 
and  did  n't  enjoy  waiting.  They  certainly  did  n't  like 
being  spoken  to  as  if  they  were  expected  to  take  an 
order  and  to  carry  it  out.  Charles  asked  for  the  wine- 
card.  Looking  at  it,  he  demanded  a  half-bottle  of 
Graves. 

"What's  that.?"  he  was  asked. 

"Graves,"  he  replied. 

"There  ain't  no  such  wine,"  the  waiter  asserted,  after 
an  anxious  scrutiny  of  the  list. 

"G — r — a — V — e — s — graves,"  Charles  repeated. 

"Oh,  graves,  is  what  you  mean?"  and  the  waiter 


238  eAVIARE 

looked  at  Charles  as  if  his  customer  was  a  little  dippy. 
Himself  he  pronounced  it  in  a  mortuary  fashion. 

One  hears  a  great  deal  in  England  of  the  glories  of  the 
American  museums,  of  their  picture-collections,  public 
and  private.  Charles  determined  to  go  and  see  the 
Metropolitan  Museum  at  once.  Perhaps  he  'd  be  so  busy 
after  to-day  that  he'd  never  have  another  chance.  I 
hardly  like  to  tell  you  that  this  visit  was  almost  the 
only  real  disappointment  he  had  in  America.  Other 
things  he  might  n't  have  liked;  certain  characteristics 
of  the  country  rubbed  his  fur  the  wrong  way  —  but  they 
did  n't  disappoint  him.  But  the  Metropoltan  Museum 
frankly  did.  I'm  not  sure,  though,  that  it  was  n't  his 
own  fault.  Perhaps  I  told  you  he  was  a  Manet  fanatic. 
The  New  York  Manets  did  n't  seem  to  him  important 
enough.  They  did  n't  hold  a  candle  to  those  of  the 
Geheimrat  Arnold  in  Berlin.  Perhaps  he  was  wrong. 
So  much  depends  on  the  mood.  The  novelty,  the  beauty 
of  the  city  had  worn  out  his  powers,  and  while  he  had 
been  in  the  gallery  the  weather  had  changed;  that  eleva- 
tor-boy had  prophesied  more  wisely  than  had  seemed. 
It  was  cold;  that  a  sun  should  be  behind  those  grey- 
brown  clouds  seemed  impossible;  the  wind  bit  his  face 
and  fingers.  He  took  a  taxi  and  drove  to  his  hotel  through 
streets  that  seemed  to  him  grey,  sombre,  hideous.  "  Gee 
whizz,"  he  said  to  himself, — it  was  a  phrase  he  'd  picked 
up  on  the  boat, —  "they  do  know  how  to  charge,"  as 
he  paid  the  driver.  The  hotel  porter  smiled  sardonically. 

Charles  went  to  his  room.  The  enthusiasm  of  the 
morning  had  given  way  to  the  blankest  depression,  to 


DEAD  MUSEUMS  AND  MILES  OF  MISERY    239 

the  most  hopeless  pessimism.  He  was  quite,  quite  sure 
he'd  never  be  happy  in  the  country.  How  could  he  be? 
There  was  n't  even  a  fireplace  in  his  room.  He  sat  on 
the  edge  of  his  bed  and  looked  at  the  telephone  and 
swore  softly.  He  'd  have  liked  to  cry.  He  was  homesick. 
Whom  did  he  know?  No  one.  What  had  he  come  for? 
What,  indeed?  Because  he  was  in  love  —  in  love  with  an 
American  girl  who  had  the  sense  apparently  to  prefer 
Europe.  He  was  to  make  a  fortune.  Was  he?  How 
could  he  even  make  a  living  among  all  these  strangers? 
He  'd  a  good  mind  to  give  up  the  whole  thing,  to  return 
to  Paris  and  to  Alison,  to  await  Mr.  Gorham's  release, 
and  to  throw  himself  on  his  mercy.  What  possible 
place  for  himself  could  he  make  in  this  inhuman  Baby- 
lon —  this  city  in  which  even  the  elevator-boys  thought 
he  was  a  joke.  However,  he  could  n't  discard  his  eye- 
glass. He  'd  sworn  he  would  n't.  He  looked  at  his  boots. 
Should  he  go  out  and  get  a  pair  with  the  proper  nobbly 
toes?   Perhaps  they 'd  do  the  trick. 

He'd  go  to  bed,  he  thought.  He'd  be  comfortable  in 
bed.  The  room  would  n't  be  stuffy  anyhow;  it  was  a 
good  thing  there  was  n't  a  fire  after  all.  It  was  rather 
jolly  and  warm  as  a  matter  of  fact.  And  perhaps  he 
would  n't  stop  in  bed.  He  looked  out  over  the  roofs 
below  him:  it  was  getting  dark;  lights  were  beginning 
to  pick  out  the  shapes  of  the  buildings  and  the  lie  of  the 
streets.  He  went  into  his  dinky  little  bath-room  and 
lay  in  a  hot  bath.  It  really  was  n't  so  bad.  And  it  was 
so  easy  to  telephone  to  the  floor  clerk  to  ask  to  be  called 
at  half-past  six.  Then  he  'd  have  time  to  dress  for  dinner. 
He'd  got  an  idea  for  dinner. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  TAKES  HIS  FIRST 
AMERICAN  COCKTAIL,  AND  A  PERSON  OF  THE  STORY 
REAPPEARS 

CHARLES'S  idea  for  dinner  was  not  culinary.  I 
don't  want  you  to  think  he  was  greedy.  Indeed 
he  was  n't.  No,  the  truth  was  that  as  he  had 
to  eat  he  hked  to  eat  well.  That  does  n't  mean  that  he 
ate  much;  [it  does  n't  even  mean  that  he  thought  a 
great  deal  about  it.  He  thought  enough. 

His  idea  was  based  simply  on  his  wish,  a  little  less 
insistent  now  that  he  had  slept,  to  get  out  of  America. 
New  York  frightened  him.  He  felt  that  here  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  was  n't  his  own  master,  was  n't 
even  captain  of  his  soul.  He  felt  small.  He  did  n't  cut 
enough  ice.  But,  however  small  he  might  feel,  he  could 
n't  stop  in  his  bedroom  indefinitely.  He  dressed  and 
sailed  downstairs,  a  little  disturbed  that  it  was  a  new 
shirtwaist  that  watched  his  sinking  into  the  elevator 
shaft,  watched  him  with  a  cold  and  appraising  scrutiny. 
Perhaps  there  was  something  not  quite  right  with  his 
clothes.  Shot  out  on  the  ground  floor,  he  was  dazzled  at 
the  movement  and  the  light.  Suddenly  he  found  a 
friend  —  a  maitre  d' hotel  who  'd  been  at  Ostend.  Charles, 
who  felt  so  lonely,  was  even  more  glad  to  see  Jacques 
than  Jacques  was  glad  to  see  him. 

"You  are  stopping  here,  Mr.  Caerleon?" 


CHARLES'S  FIRST  AMERICAN  COCKTAIL    241 

"Yes,  I  am,  Jacques,  and  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  cry 
to-night  and  to  go  away  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  sir.  Don't  you  let  that  worry 
you  any.  Newcomers  are  generally  that  way.  It  '11 .  wear 
off.  Come  in  and  have  dinner,  and  I'll  see  that  you 
forget  you're  in  America,  You  shall  even  have  sole." 

"I  can't,  Jacques,  I'm  dining  somewhere  else  —  but 
I  wish  you  could  tell  me  what '11  cheer  me  up," 

"Go  into  the  bar,  Mr.  Caerleon"  —  the  earlier  "sir" 
was  a  mistake,  a  reversion  to  European  habit —  "and 
have  a  cocktail  — " 

"A  cocktail!  Never,  They're  an  abomination," 

"In  Europe,  yes.  I  agree.  But  not  here.  An  American 
bartender  who  goes  to  Europe  loses  his  hand  —  or,  yes, 
perhaps  it 's  his  conscience  he  loses.  He  makes  bad  drinks 
anyway.  The  same  thing  happens  when  a  good  res- 
taurant man  comes  over  here.  He  may  be  good  enough 
to  start  with,  but  the  edge  gets  taken  off  him  pretty 
soon.  How  can  he  help  it,  poor  man,  when  he 's  as  likely 
as  not  to  have  a  customer  to  attend  to  whose  only  idea 
of  ordering  a  dinner  is  to  ask  for  the  most  expensive 
things.  I  can  tell  you  it  does  me  good  to  see  someone 
who  really  knows," 

"Jacques,  you're  pulling  my  leg.  But  what  about 
that  cocktail?  You  get  the  real  thing  here,  you  say? 
What  am  I  to  ask  for?" 

"You  go  right  round  there,  Mr.  Caerieon,  and  you '11 
find  the  bar.  Ask  for  a  Clover  Club,  And  now,  good 
evening,  sir.  I  shall  hope  to  order  lunch  or  dinner  for 
you  to-morrow." 

Charles  was  obedient.  He  found  the  bar,  was  aston- 


242  CAVIARE 

ished  at  its  size,  its  pictures,  which  would  have  been 
equally  in  place  in  the  Luxembourg,  and  its  crowd. 
With  internal  diffidence  he  asked  the  white-jacketed  bar- 
tender for  a  Clover  Club.  He  saw  it  mixed  and  shaken 
up.  He  drank  it,  and  thought  it  a  Httle  sweet,  a  little 
ladylike.  He  leaned  against  the  bar  in  what  seemed 
the  regulation  attitude  and  considered  the  cocktail's  fla- 
vour. .  .  .  Suddenly  he  was  touched  on  the  shoulder. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  but  are  you  an  Englishman?  My 
friends  there  and  I  had  a  little  bet  about  it.  I  said  you 
were;  they  said  you  were  n't." 

It  was  clearly  an  Englishman  who  was  addressing 
Charles.  Rather  a  pleasant-looking  young  man  —  a  little 
dissipated,  but  pleasant. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  English  all  right  —  always  was  and 
always  shall  be,"  Charles  replied. 

"So  much  the  better.  Won't  you  join  us?  What'U 
you  take?" 

Charles  did  n't  like  drinking  with  strangers.  He 
excused  himself.  He  said  he'd  only  just  come  off  the 
boat  and  was  n't  in  shape  yet. 

"Well,  I'm  sorry.  But  perhaps  you  can  help  me. 
Have  you  got  an  English  Army  List  in  your  baggage? 
If  you  have,  may  I  come  and  look  at  it?  You're  in  the 
army  surely." 

Charles  remembered  what  he  had  heard  of  confidence 
men,  and  although  his  bank-notes  were  secure  in  the 
hotel  safe,  he  thought  the  conversation  had  gone  far 
enough. 

"  No,  I  have  not  got  an  Army  List,  and  I  am  not  in 
the  army  —  and  I  wish  you  good  evening." 


CHARLES'S  FIRST  AMERICAN  COCKTAIL    243 

He  walked  out  into  Broadway.  The  cocktail  or  the 
encounter  or  the  passage  of  time  or  an  improvement 
in  the  weather  —  one  of  these  or  all  four  had  brought 
back  his  equanimity.  He  looked  at  the  silhouette  of  the 
"Times"  building  against  the  azure  sky,  and  wondered 
why  people  said  that  New  York  had  no  beauty,  why  they 
did  n't  say  no  other  city  was  more  beautiful.  Just  now 
Washington  Square  was  the  place  he  had  to  go  to. 
He  'd  looked  it  up  in  his  Baedeker,  and  he  learned  that 
unless  he  wanted  to  ruin  himself  in  taxi-cabs  he  'd  better 
take  a  car  —  a  tram-car  we  'd  call  it  in  England  —  and 
get  out  at  Madison  Square  and  walk  down  Fifth  Avenue 
a  few  blocks.  Even  a  few  hours  in  New  York  was  making 
him  quite  American!  He  waited  for  a  car  and  it  ran 
past  him.  It  took  him  a  little  while  to  realise  that  in 
a  country  so  alert  and  so  intelligent,  so  well  ordered, 
the  car  people  were  n't  going  to  waste  time  by  stopping 
just  anywhere,  on  either  side  of  the  intersecting  street. 
If  you  wanted  to  get  in  you  had  to  be  on  the  right  corner 
—  one  corner  for  going  uptown  the  other  for  going  down. 
And  when  you  did  get  in,  the  cars  were  warm,  snug.  It 
certainly  was  a  wonderful  country.  And  Broadway  — 
what  a  street !  Its  crowds  made  Piccadilly,  the  Strand, 
the  French  boulevards,  or  the  Friedrichsstrasse  look  like 
thirty  cents.   And  the  row! 

Charles  was  n't  thinking.  "Does  this  car  go  to 
Washington  Square?"  he  asked  the  conductor,  of 
brakcman,  or  whatever  he's  called. 

"I  guess  not,"  the  man  replied,  and  continued  his 
duties. 

However,  ultimately  Charles  was  shot  out  and  found 


244  CAVIARE 

himself  on  the  lower  end  of  Fifth  Avenue  —  as  quiet 
after  Broadway  as  Bloomsbury.  It  was  no  long  walk  to 
Washington  Square,  and  when  he  got  there  he  thought 
himself  not  in  New  York  but  in  Bath,  or  Potsdam  — 
anywhere  rather  than  in  America.  This  world  surely 
was  ruled  not  by  Taft  but  by  Queen  Anne. 

It  was  the  Hotel  Frontenac  that  he  was  looking  for, 
and  he  quickly  found  it.  It  was  the  square's  one  sign  of 
life. 

The  Hotel  Frontenac  is  a  corner  of  France.  It  is  like 
an  Embassy:  it  is  French  soil.  The  porter,  the  first  man 
you  see,  is,  and  looks,  French ;  you  hear  French  when  you 
enter  the  hall;  it  is  French  that  is  being  talked  between 
the  clerks  and  the  visitors;  the  advertisements  on  the 
wall  are  in  French;  you  would  think,  looking  at  them, 
that  the  only  boats  running  to  New  York  from  Europe 
were  those  of  the  Compagnie  Generale  Transatlantique. 
And  this  was  Charles's  idea.  He  'd  dine  here.  Someone 
had  told  him  months  ago  that  when  you  were  tired  of 
America  you  could  in  New  York  in  a  very  few  minutes 
find  Italy,  Germany,  Spain  —  but,  most  of  all,  France 
at  the  Hotel  Frontenac.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  was  no 
longer  tired  of  America.  He  was  becoming  curious. 
He  felt  that  after  all  he  'd  like  the  place,  and  he  'd  try  to 
make  it  like  him.  Perhaps,  when  it  came  to  the  point, 
it  would  only  be  a  question  of  observing  a  few  con- 
ventions, of  obeying  a  few  rules.  A  foreigner  does  n't 
have  such  a  very  good  time  in  London  till  he's  broken 
through  the  crust.  A  Frenchman  will  tell  you  that  — 
and  so  will  an  American.    Charles  was  going  to  break 


CHARLES'S  FIRST  AMERICAN  COCKTAIL     245 

through  the  crust.  But  to-night,  his  first  night,  he'd 
rest.  He'd  give  himself  time  to  get  accHmatised.  He'd 
order  a  French  dinner;  he'd  talk  French  to  the  waiters; 
and  he'd  forget  New  York. 

Pleased  by  his  good  accent  and  by  his  air  of  having 
come  from  that  other  land  of  which  every  Frenchman 
thinks  so  constantly,  they  found  Charles  a  good  table, 
and  they  gave  him  good  food.  The  place  was  n't  crowded : 
perhaps  he  was  a  little  early.  He  sat  in  a  corner  away 
from  anyone  else  and  read  a  French  paper,  published 
the  day  after  he'd  left  Paris,  that  the  Provence  had 
brought  in  that  morning.  Paris !  It  seemed  a  long  way 
off.  What  would  n't  he  give  to  be  able  to  drop  down 
now  at  this  hour  —  it  did  n't  occur  to  him  to  allow  for 
the  difference  of  time  —  on  the  Hotel  Meurice  and  to 
see  what  Miss  Gorham  was  doing?  He'd  left  her  a  week 
ago,  and  so  many  things  can  happen  in  a  week.  Mr. 
Gorham,  according  to  his  own  forecast,  was  n't  due  yet 
to  rejoin  his  daughter.  He  wondered  what  had  happened 
to  the  fortune  of  that  cold-blooded  old  gentleman  —  no, 
not  cold-blooded:  that  was  the  wrong  word;  Charles 
thought  of  the  American  word  "nervy."  Certainly 
Alison's  father  had  nerve.  And  Charles  liked  him.  He 
believed  he  was  giving  him  a  square  deal.  He  believed 
he  'd  really  allow  him  a  chance  with  Alison.  But  then  — 
if  he  did  n't  tell  her  anything  about  Charles's  love,  how 
could  she  be  expected  to  keep  free?  It  was  n't  any  use 
going  over  that  ground  again.  He  could  only  hope  for 
the  best.  And  he  could  write  frankly  to  Mr.  Gorham, 
and,  now  and  again,  in  a  different  way,  to  Alison  herself. 
Perhaps  she  knew  —  and  would  wait.  Alison  Caerleon. 


246  CAVIARE 

...  In  the  mean  time  it  behoved  him  to  pull  himself 
together  and  to  work  —  to  get  work  first,  and  then  to 
show  that  even  in  America  an  Englishman  can  make  a 
place  for  himself.  And  there  was  his  twenty -five  thou- 
sand dollars  —  it  sounded  better,  more,  when  he  said  it 
that  way. 

He  pushed  away  his  plate,  and  took  up  his  eyeglass  to 
polish  before  looking  round  the  room.  People  had  come 
in  and  others  had  gone  out.  Charles  had  been  very 
leisurely  over  his  meal.  They  had  not  hustled  him. 
Hardly  anyone  was  left.  One  or  two  were  amusing  to 
him  as  a  visitor.  The  French  bourgeois  altered  —  and 
yet  altered  so  little  —  by  foreign  travel  and  foreign 
trade.  In  a  farther  corner  by  herself  a  lady  was  dining. 
She,  too,  was  French.  That,  although  Charles  could  n't 
see  her  face,  was  n't  difficult  to  tell.  But  something 
about  her,  about  the  shape  of  her  head,  reminded  him 
vaguely  of  someone  he'd  known.  Or  was  it  that  her 
head-dress  was  like  some  other  he'd  seen  recently.  He 
questioned  himself  for  a  moment  and  then  dismissed  the 
subject  from  his  mind  as  of  no  importance.  Whoever  or 
whatever  she  might  be,  and  even  if  she  was  lovely  as  the 
spring,  she  would  be  of  no  use,  no  interest  to  him.  His 
one  hand  was  at  his  eyeglass  to  take  it  out,  the  other  was 
feeling  again  for  the  "Matin,"  when  she  looked  up. 


CHAPTER  VII 

POOR   HANDFUL   OF   BRIGHT   SPRING-WATER 

EVEN  when  the  lady  looked  up  Charles  might 
easily  have  failed  to  recognise  her.  But  her  own 
recognition  of  him  was  so  immediate,  so  happy, 
that  his  memory  was  forced  to  respond.  It  was  the 
young  girl  of  the  Abbaye  de  Theleme. 

And  yet  she  was  different.  The  little  blue  turban  that 
she  wore  was  the  same  as  she  had  worn  on  that  fateful 
night;  perhaps  the  dress  was  the  same  —  but  she  herself 
looked  no  longer  weary;  her  pallor  had  gone.  Ten  days 
without  anxiety  had  worked  that  miracle  which  repose 
and  freedom  from  being  harassed  work  always  in  the 
troubled  woman.  Looking  up,  she  caught  Charles's  eye. 
The  thing  was  inevitable;  it  was  inevitable,  too,  that 
he  should  cross  the  room  to  speak  to  her.  Not  to  do 
so  would  be  cruel,  slighting.  She  had  no  awkwardness 
at  this  their  second  encounter. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again.  Monsieur.  You  did 
me  such  a  service  "  —  her  eyes  looked  for  a  moment  as  if 
at  the  memory  tears  might  come  —  "and  I  fear  that  at 
the  time  I  did  not  thank  you,  not  thank  you  sufficiently, 
at  all  events.  .  .  ." 

"You  need  not  thank  me.  I  did  not  do  anything  that 
I  would  not  in  such  circumstances  willingly  do  again  — 
for  you  or  for  any  other  woman,"  he  added. 

"That  is  not  so,  Monsieur.  And  a  Frenchman  would 


248  CAVIARE 

have  behaved  differently.  And  —  may  I  speak  of  it?  — 
you  gave,  you  lent  me,  so  much  money.  Please,  now  that 
I  have  met  you,  may  I  not  give  it  back  to  you?  See,  I 
have  it  upstairs  in  my  room." 

"Now,  you  really  make  me  cross.  I  was  happy  to 
have  been  of  assistance  —  but  I  must  n't  talk  about  all 
this  now."  Charles  was  still  standing  up. 

"See,  Monsieur.  I  haven't  finished  my  dinner;  I'm 
stopping  here :  if  you  have  n't  finished  yours,  won't  you 
tell  the  waiter  to  bring  the  rest  of  it  to  this  table?  You 
are  alone,  are  n't  you?" 

Charles  did  n't  want  to  accept  this  invitation,  entirely 
without  design  though  he  believed  it  to  be.  He  did  n't 
want  to  talk.  He  did  n't  want  to  make  a  friend,  nor 
even  an  acquaintance,  of  this  young  girl.  In  the  past, 
perhaps,  he  would  have  felt  differently,  but  not  now.  .  .  . 
Still,  he  had  to  do  as  he  was  asked. 

"But,  tell  me,  what  are  you  doing  in  New  York?  I 
should  n't  have  thought  you'd  like  America?" 

"I  don't  much,  but  a  few  days  after  you  saw  me  my 
friend  brought  me  over  here.  I  went  down  to  Marseilles 
to  meet  him;  we  took  the  steamer  to  Naples,  and  the 
next  day  sailed  for  this  place.  We  got  here  yesterday. 
But  please  let  me  go  upstairs  to  get  that  money." 

"I  say  that  you  make  me  very  cross.  I  did  n't  lend 
it  you.  I  gave  it  you.  I  gave  it  you  to  annoy  the  black- 
guard who  was  worrying  you,  and  for  my  own  pleasure, 
and  nothing  would  induce  me  to  take  it  back.  It  'd  bring 
me  bad  luck.  Giving  it  to  you  brought  me  good  luck,  I 
do  believe"  —  this  was  quite  a  new  idea  to  Charles. 
It  had  n't  occurred  to  him  before.    Indeed,  I  doubt  if 


POOR  HANDFUL  OF  BRIGHT  SPRING-WATER  249 

he  'd  even  remembered  the  existence  of  the  young  woman 
from  the  moment  at  which  he  had  parted  with  her  in  the 
Abbaye. 

She  smiled.  "  It 's  kindness  makes  you  say  that  —  but 
it's  blague,  all  the  same,"  she  said.  "How  could  /  bring 
you  luck?  You  have  everything  you  can  want  in  the 
world  —  money,  friends,  health,  happiness.   I  could  see 

—  I  saw  you  afterwards  in  the  restaurant." 

"You  should  n't  trust  appearances  —  and  neverthe- 
less, I  do  believe  you  've  been  my  mascotte.  I  hope  your 
turning  up  now  means  I'm  to  have  some  more  good 
luck.   I  want  it:  really,  I  do." 

"I'm  not  sure  whether  you  brought  me  luck  exactly, 
but  I  do  know  that  you  saved  everything  for  me  that 
night:  if  it  had  n't  been  for  you  I'd  have  been  finished. 
As  it  is,  well"  —  and  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  and 
spread  her  hands.  "As  it  is,  I've  pulled  through  this 
time." 

"And  you're  comfortable,  I  hope?"  Charles  asked. 

The  girl  smiled  sadly.  "Comfortable,  yes;  happy,  no. 
My  friend  is  generous,  and  not  so  bad.  He 's  away  now 

—  in  —  how  do  you  say  it?  —  Chicago." 

Charles  wished  to  steer  the  conversation  away  from 
domestic  details.  They  didn't  interest  him;  and  be- 
sides, the  girl  was  too  nice  for  him  to  think  happily 
of  her  in  such  a  relation.  He  looked  at  her  again. 
Truly  she  was  pretty,  more  than  pretty.  Always  her 
full,  small  mouth  was  a  little  open,  her  two  lips  like 
little  cherries.  There  was  something  tender  about  her 
beauty,  unprotected,  almost  plaintive.  And  yet  her 
eyes,  sad  now,  suggested  happiness:  laughter  was  in 


250  CAVIARE 

their  depths.   Like  a  bird  that  sings,  Charles  said  to 
himself. 

"But  you  —  why  do  you  say  you  want  good  luck 
now?  Tell  me  about  it:  if  I  brought  you  luck  before, 
perhaps  I  shall  again."  She  looked  concerned.  She 
thought  Charles  was  troubled,  and  she  was  troubled 
herself  for  him.  "You  looked  so  happy  when  you  were 
in  the  Abbaye.  The  lady  you  were  with  was  so  beautiful. 
She  was  not  your  wife  —  no,  nor  the  wife  of  your  friend.?" 
She  asked  because  it  did  n't  occur  to  her  French  mind 
that  a  young  girl  could  go  to  such  a  place  as  the  Abbaye. 
Surely  the  lady  must  be  married  to  one  or  other  of  her 
companions?  She  hoped,  though,  that  it  was  not  to 
Charles. 

Charles  smiled  in  his  turn.  "No,  the  lady  is  not  my 
wife;  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  gentleman  I  was  with." 

"But  she  is  married,  surely?" 

"No,  not  married  —  ah!  I  see.  English  and  American 
people  have  odd  ideas.  When  their  daughters  are  away 
from  home  and  have  reached  a  certain  age,  they  don't 
seem  to  mind  where  they  take  them  or  what  they  see. 
It's  a  pity,  perhaps,  but  there  it  is." 

The  Blue  Turban  nodded.  She  knew,  she  did  not 
need  to  think,  that  it  was  a  pity.  She  was  a  girl  too. 

Suddenly  she  put  out  her  hand  and  placed  it  over 
Charles's  where  it  lay  on  the  table.  She  did  it  instinct- 
ively. Charles  knew  it  was  for  encouragement.  "You 
will  marry  her;  you  love  her." 

"I  love  her;  but  I  do  not  know  whether  she  will 
marry  me." 
"  "  She  will  marry  you,  for  she  loves  you.  Trust  me.  I 


POOR  HANDFUL  OF  BRIGHT  SPRING-WATER  251 

know  perhaps  better  than  she  knows  herself.  I  watched. 
I  could  see  her  eyes." 

"I  hope  so  —  but  I  have  not  asked  her." 

"My  faith  —  and  why  not.''  Attend:  that  lady  does 
love  you,  and  that  truly.  It  did  not  please  me.  I  was 
not  glad  to  see  it.  I  liked  you  myself  —  for  more  than 
your  kindness.  So  I  could  see  better,  because  I  cared." 
She  said  all  this  so  charmingly,  with  so  much  youthful 
frankness,  that  Charles  could  feel  no  resentment.  She 
had  sweet  eyes. 

"But  what  are  you  doing  here.'*  You  are  not  Ameri- 
can? The  lady  is.  So!  I  did  not  know.  But  she  is  not 
here  too.  Then  why  are  you  here?  Not  that  it  matters. 
She  will  not  forget  you;  she  will  never  do  that  —  nor 
shall  I,"  she  ended  lamely. 

Charles  couldn't  help  it:  he'd  been  lonely  so  long; 
for  so  long  he  'd  carried  all  his  difficulties  and  doubts  in 
his  heart.  He'd  wanted  sympathy,  and,  meeting  it, 
now  was  carried  away.  He  did  not  tell  to  that  candid 
figure  opposite  him  all  his  story,  all  his  troubles,  but 
he  told  enough.  How  unlike  him  it  was !  Reticence  was 
a  habit  with  him,  a  second  nature.  To  no  one  of  his 
friends  could  he  have  brought  himself  to  speak  of  what 
he  now  cared  for  more  than  the  world.  But  those  brown 
eyes  drew  him  to  being  frank.  He  found  comfort  in  her 
beauty,  her  solicitude  for  his  happiness.  Perhaps  it  was 
shameful  of  him  to  sit  there  in  New  York,  in  a  French 
restaurant,  speaking  of  Alison.  But  it  can  be  pardoned. 

He  told  her  of  Mr.  Gorham's  obduracy  and  of  the 
task  that  was  set  him,  and  of  his  real  hopelessness. 
How  could  he  who  had  never  worked  hope  now  to  work 


252  CAVIARE 

with  such  immediate  success  that  he  could  return  in  a 
year  equipped  with  those  weapons  Mr.  Gorham  seemed 
to  think  essential?  And  he  told  her  of  his  luck  at  Monte 
Carlo  —  "You  can  see  why  I  think  of  you  as  my  mas- 
cotte,  and  why  the  trifle  I  gave  you  is  as  nothing  in  the 
balance"  —  and  of  how  he  had  some  hope  that,  using 
this  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  as  capital,  he  might 
perhaps  achieve  something. 

And  the  more  he  talked  the  more  thoughtful  grew 
the  oval  face,  the  brown  eyes.  She  smiled  at  him.  It 
was  clear  that  she  understood,  understood  more  than 
his  mere  words.  Charles,  who  had  known  no  mother  or 
sister,  looked  at  her  again,  and  felt  that  had  he  had  a 
sister  he  would,  in  spite  of  everything,  have  wished  her 
to  have  something  of  this  young  girl's  character.  ... 
He  thought  of  the  lines :  — 

"...  Poor  handful  of  bright  spring-water 
Flung  in  the  whiripool's  shrieking  face." 

They  both  were  silent,  thinking  the  same  thoughts. 

But,  first  of  all,  the  Frenchwoman  is  practical.  The 
little  Blue  Turban  suddenly  became  more  alert,  more 
upright.   Its  wearer  brightened :  — 

"Listen:  I  want  you  to  think  of  me  as  your  mascotte. 
I  will  be.  I  will  bring  you  luck.  I  will  bring  you  luck 
again.  But  you  must  do  as  I  tell  you.  You  have  so  much 
money  —  one  hundred  and  twenty-five  thousand  francs, 
you  say.  And  you  wish  to  make  more.  Naturally. 
You  shall.  You  must  go  to  the  Bourse  here,  and  you 
must  buy  some  shares.  They  are  called  —  no,  laugh  not 
at  how  I  say  it  —  they  are  called  Michigan  and  Illinois. 


POOR  HANDFUL  OF  BRIGHT  SPRING-WATER  253 

They  are  cheap  now,  but  after  to-morrow  —  after  mid- 
day to-morrow  —  they  will  be  dear,  and  they  will  be- 
come dearer  and  dearer.  If  you  will  buy  all  that  you  can, 
then  shall  you  make  much  money  —  and  you  shall  be 
grateful  to  me  a  little,  and  you  shall  not  regret  that  you 
helped  me  when  I  was  alone.  You  must  do  that.  You 
will  not  lose  your  money.  I  know.  No,  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  —  but  I  am  sure.  And  now,  dear  friend,  I  am 
going  to  bed." 

She  rose  and  gave  Charles  her  hand,  and  looked  at 
him.  They  were  quite  alone  in  the  restaurant.  He  took 
it  and  looked  into  her  eyes.  He  could  see  that  she  loved 
him.  He  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  kissed  it. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A   LITTLE   EXPLANATION 

CHARLES  walked  back  to  the  Knickerbocker. 
He  was  sobered;  he  was  unhappy.  Astonishing 
as  Broadway  was  at  this  hour  with  its  theatres 
vomiting  their  audiences,  with  its  milHon  Hghts,  with 
flashing  moving  sky-signs  —  here  a  bottle  of  champagne 
bubbling  over,  there  a  chariot  race,  there  a  fine  lady 
taking  off  her  stays  —  astonishing  as  it  all  was  to  an 
Englishman,  yet  his  mind  took  in  very  little.  He  was 
thinking.  First  of  Alison  and  of  Paris,  and  then  of  the 
girl  he  had  left.  Not  a  word  had  she  said  about  herself 
when  once  she  had  answered  his  questions.  She  had  been 
concerned  for  him,  grateful  and  troubled,  anxious  to  do 
what  she  could  in  return  for  the  little  help  he  'd  given 
her.  That,  of  course,  was  ridiculous,  as  ridiculous  as 
the  idea  that  he  could  let  her  return  his  sixty  pounds. 
Michigan  and  Illinois !  It  sounded  like  a  railway.  Any- 
how, though,  one  would  n't  take  a  tip  of  that  kind 
seriously.  If  it  had  been  in  London  where  he  knew  some- 
thing of  the  ropes,  it  might  have  been  different.  Perhaps 
then  he  might  have  risked  a  hundred  pounds  or  so. 
And  anyhow,  why  had  n't  she  told  him  what  made  her 
believe  she  was  doing  him  a  service  by  giving  him  this 
information?  Oh,  but  she  had  sweet  eyes! 

And  at  the  Frontenac  the  young  girl  as  she  undressed 
asked  herself  the  same  question.   Why  had  n't  she  told 


A  LITTLE  EXPLANATION  255 

this  Englishman,  whose  lips  she  could  still  feel  on  her 
hand  —  why  had  n't  she  told  him  how  it  was  she  knew 
that  Michigan  and  Illinois  were  worth  buying?  She 
had  n't  told  him  because  she  was  sure  that  if  she  had 
he  'd  have  refused,  even  though  he  were  convinced  that 
she  was  right,  to  have  taken  any  advantage  of  her  ad- 
vice. As  it  was,  it  was  just  possible  that  he  might  believe 
her.  .  .  .  Oh,  how  she  hoped  he  would!  She  wished  him 
all  that  he  longed  for. 

You  see,  she  had  not  been  alone  in  the  hotel.  "Mon- 
sieur et  Madame  Finot,"  the  hotel  register  said.  Mon- 
sieur Finot  was  a  financier,  a  financier  particularly 
interested  in  American  affairs.  It  was  Monsieur  Finot 
whom  Alison  had  seen  at  the  Abbaye.  Until  that  morn- 
ing his  companion  had  had  no  idea  on  what  particular 
business  he  had  come  to  New  York  and  had  planned  to 
go  to  Chicago.  Something  important,  she  knew  —  but 
its  importance  was  of  no  moment  to  her.  She  had  n't 
even  heard  the  name  of  Michigan  and  Illinois  until  that 
morning  she  had  been  awakened  by  the  sound  of  Mon- 
sieur Finot  talking  on  the  telephone,  which  was  at  the 
side  of  the  bed,  talking,  a  little  carelessly,  perhaps,  in 
French.  It  was  n't  the  kind  of  thing  she  could  make  any 
use  of,  that  she  'd  even  listen  to.  She  did  n't  even  know 
why  she  had  listened,  or  why,  having  heard,  she  had 
remembered. 

"Yes,"  he  was  saying.  "I  go  this  afternoon  to  Chi- 
cago. And  I  am  sure  that  everything  is  clear,  perfectly, 
perfectly  clear.  I  had  cables  last  night  both  from  London 
and  Paris.  In  London  they  are  ready  for  to-morrow.  In 
Paris  also.   Your  Mr.  Gilder  says  that  —  what  do  you 


256  CAVIARE 

call  him?  —  Gorham  —  is  quiet,  that  he  is  sure  he  can 
do  nothing.  And  it's  understood:  we  leave  the  market 
alone  to-day.  Yes,  you're  right:  it'll  jump  up  and  down 
without  any  assistance  from  us;  but  to-morrow  at  mid- 
day we  '11  begin  buying  —  you,  Chicago,  London,  Am- 
sterdam, Berlin.  Oh,  yes,  of  course:  I  worked  out  the 
difference  in  time.  What  do  you  think?  ...  I'm  not 
alone  .  .  .  ?  No,  of  course,  I'm  not.  No  Frenchman 
ever  is.  Ah!  Yes.  Good-bye." 

That  is  what  she  had  heard  —  but  to  her  quick  intelli- 
gence it  was  enough.  If  you  have  the  Gallic  wit  you 
don't  require  to  have  every  detail  explained.  She  had 
turned  on  her  side,  had  been  a  little  peevish  with  Mon- 
sieur Finot  at  being  disturbed  in  this  stupid  way  by 
matters  which  did  n't  concern  her,  and,  as  she  fell  asleep 
again,  had  regretted  that  she  could  n't  make  use  of  the 
knowledge  she  had  gained.  Still,  that  kind  of  thing 
was  n't  her  business. 

She  had  remembered  it  just  in  time! 

She  knew  Monsieur  Finot  so  well.  He  had  come  to 
America  to  help  arrange  the  matter,  and  she  was  sure 
there 'd  be  no  hitch.  He'd  see  to  that.  Michigan  and 
Illinois  would  be  bought,  and  if  they  were  worth  ten 
francs  to-day  they'd  be  worth  twenty  to-morrow.  He 
would  have  laid  his  nets  carefully.  And  the  more  money 
he  made  out  of  the  deal  the  more  she'd  get  for  herself. 
But  still  this  Englishman  had  been  so  generous,  so  much 
a  man.  And  anyhow,  with  only  a  hundred  and  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs  he  could  n't  upset  her  friend's  plans. 
If  she  had  thought  that  possible  she'd  have  bitten  her 
tongue  off  rather  than  have  told  him  anything.    She 


A   LITTLE   EXPLANATION  257 

could  n't  betray  Monsieur  Finot.  Indeed,  that  reason 
alone  would  have  been  enough  to  prevent  her  telling  the 
Englishman  all  that  she  knew.  But  now,  perhaps,  — 
oh,  how  she  hoped!  —  he'd  take  her  advice,  and  he'd 
invest  his  money,  and  he  'd  double  it  or  treble  it,  and  he  'd 
think  of  her,  even  though  he  never  saw  her  again.  She  'd 
always  have  a  place,  a  little  place,  in  his  memory.  He 
was  so  strong,  so  clean  and  loyal.  That  young  American 
girl  was  not  good  enough  for  him.  Still,  though,  she 
would  get  him.  That  was  sure.  The  women  in  my  story 
weep  constantly.  Perhaps  it  is  a  feminine  habit.  I  can 
only  answer  for  these  two  whom  I  know.  A  little  yellow 
head  lay  on  its  white  pillow  and  sobbed  itself  to  sleep. 
If  things  had  only  been  different ! 

And  Charles?  Charles  walked  home.  He  could  n't 
get  his  young  French  acquaintance  out  of  his  mind.  She 
came  between  him  and  the  morrow,  between  him  and  his 
thoughts  of  Alison.  Of  course,  all  she  had  said  about  his 
investing  his  money  in  some  railway  —  he  was  n't  even 
sure  of  the  name  now  —  was  sheer  February  madness, 
but  she  cared  for  him,  and  she  was  unhappy.  .  .  .  Was 
there  anything  he  could  do  for  her?  Why  do  anything? 
Was  n't  she  as  well  provided  for  as  was  possible?  But 
she  had  sweet  eyes!  and  he  knew  she  loved  him.  He 
would  never  see  her  again.  She  was  the  last  person  of 
his  old  life;  that  night's  dinner  was  its  last  hour.  To- 
morrow at  ten  o'clock  he'd  present  his  letter  of  intro- 
duction, and  then,  no  doubt,  he  would  have  to  get  busy. 
Of  the  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  that  a  year 
holds  he  'd  spent  seven.  He  supposed  Mr.  Gorham  would 


258  CAVIARE 

count  from  the  day  of  his  sailing.  Well,  you  could  do  a 
lot  in  three  hundred  and  fifty -one  days.  That  allowed 
seven  for  his  voyage  back.  The  truth  is,  Charles  was 
sleepy.  He  could  n't  keep  awake.  His  dreams  were  as 
much  of  a  little  blue  turban  in  New  York,  as  of  Alison 
in  Paris. 


CHAPTER  IX 

m  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHAKLES  PRESENTS  HIS  LETTER 
OF   INTRODUCTION  AND   GOES   INTO   WALL   STREET 

COMING  down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
his  first  in  New  York,  Charles  wandered  across 
to  the  news-stand.  "Which  is  the  most  Ameri- 
can, the  most  un-Enghsh,  of  all  these  papers?"  he  asked 
the  pretty  shirtwaist  who  was  cheerfully  engaged  in 
taking  three  cents  for  a  two-cent  article.  You  see,  he 
wanted  something  that  was  really  in  the  picture,  that 
would,  most  quickly,  let  him,  a  stranger,  into  the  secret 
of  this  great  city,  this  turmoil,  this  jungle. 

"Try  the  'New  York  American,'  "  she  answered.  "I 
don't  believe  that's  English." 

Charles,  who,  still  in  pursuit  of  atmosphere,  of  local 
colour,  had  started  his  breakfast  with  stewed  pears  and 
cream  and  had  gone  on  to  sausages,  maple  syrup  and 
buckwheat  cakes,  —  all  together,  —  soon  found  out  that 
she  was  right.  The  paper  was  n't  EngHsh,  it  was  n't 
even  in  English.  That 's  why  he  liked  it.  "  I  '11  take  this 
in,"  he  said  to  himself.  "When  I  'm  rich  and  get  back  to 
England  I'll  have  a  'New  York  American'  every 
morning.  It'll  prevent  things  being  dull.  I  can  show  it 
to  people  who  abuse  the  'Daily  Mail.' "  Not  that  he 
found  in  its  pages  much  that  was  craggy  to  break  the 
mind  upon.  lie  read  at  it  all,  even  the  advertisements, 
and  came  at  last  to  the  financial  page.  He  might  as  well 


26o  CAVIARE 

read  that,  too,  especially  as  the  letter  of  introduction 
he  was  to  present  would  take  him  into  what  he  believed 
was  the  financial  district  —  somewhere  at  the  other  end 
of  Broadway.  He  did  n't  understand  much  of  it  —  but 
then,  if  the  truth  were  told,  he  had  n't  understood  more 
than  a  half  even  of  the  pages  that  dealt  with  such  every- 
day events  as  railroad  collisions,  the  last  scandal  in  some 
European  royal  family,  murder,  and  sudden  death.  He 
did  understand  one  thing,  though,  and  that  was  that 
Michigan  and  Illinois  —  the  name  he  recalled  of  the 
stock  his  young  French  acquaintance  had  urged  on  him 
so  earnestly  —  was  creating  quite  a  little  flurry  in  Wall 
Street.  It  had  gone  down  so  much  during  the  last  ten 
days  that  it  had  seemed  that  on  the  morning  of  which 
the  financial  expert  was  writing  it  could  n't  go  down  any 
more.  But  it  had  continued  its  evil  course  —  it  had  gone 
down  a  lot.  And  this  was  the  stock  that  the  Blue  Tur- 
ban had  begged  him  to  buy!  He  read  on.  The  expert 
seemed  to  think  that  now  at  last  the  bottom  must  be 
reached.  All  the  weak  holders  must  have  been  shaken 
out  and  have  reached  the  earth  long  ago.  Surely  the 
balloon  would  go  up  again.  The  expert  did  n't  put  it  so 
baldly  as  that;  he  did  n't  prophesy  —  but  he  reminded 
his  readers  of  one  or  two  occasions  when  railroad  stock 
of  this  kind  had  had  a  sharp  and  continued  rally  after  a 
week  or  so  of  selling. 

Did  n't  this  rather  fit  in  with  what  he  'd  been  told 
overnight?  Charles  began  to  wonder  whether  there 
was  n't  something  in  the  advice  he'd  been  given,  after 
all.  It  had  been  foolish  of  him  not  to  have  pressed  for 
more  details.    No.    That  would  have  been  to  take  it 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO  WALL    STREET      261 

seriously;  and  even  though  he  acted  on  it  now,  as  one 
might  back  a  horse  on  any  casual  tip,  yet  it  was  sure 
that  he  had  n't  taken  it  seriously.  Should  he  take  a 
jflyer  at  the  game?  —  he  thought  that  was  the  right 
American  phrase.  Should  he  try  to  make  a  little  money.'' 
He  pretended  to  himself  that  he  'd  think  it  over,  but  he 
knew  perfectly  well  that  he'd  already  decided.  But  it 
was  time  to  go  downtown.  He  could  come  back  later  on 
and  institute  inquiries  of  those  members  of  the  New  York 
Stock  Exchange  who  seemed  to  have  an  office  in  the  hotel 
itself.  A  convenient  idea,  that.  The  money  you  don't 
spend  on  rooms,  valet  service,  and  complicated  American 
dishes,  you  can  lay  out  on  mining  shares  or  railway 
bonds.  You  can  either  leave  the  hotel  earlier  or  stop 
longer,  according  to  your  luck. 

In  the  subway  station  Charles  bought  an  evening 
paper  —  the  "Post."  It  was  very  much  more  conserva- 
tive, he  found.  It  gave  him  no  thrills,  but,  in  a  different 
way  and  in  a  very  different  manner,  its  financial  man 
was  a  good  deal  worked  up  about  Michigan  and  Illinois. 
He,  too,  thought  it  possible  there 'd  be  a  reaction.  But 
when,  and  whether  it'd  be  intermittent,  were  matters 
about  which  he  offered  no  opinion. 

Charles  began  to  think. 

Ill  news  travels  fast.  No  one  in  New  York  outside 
the  very  small  circle  of  people  who  were  in  "Old  Man 
Pyle's"  confidence  in  the  working  of  his  Michigan  and 
Illinois  pool,  knew  that  Mr.  Gorham  had  been  put  out  of 
operation.  But  one  or  other  must  have  dropped  a  hint 
that  the  Gorham  Waterloo  was  approaching.   It  must 


262  CAVIARE 

have  been  suggested  that  all  was  n't  right  with  the  Gor- 
ham  interests.  The  Zulus  have  some  wonderful  method 
—  so  far  unexplained,  I  believe  —  of  signalling  news 
over  vast  tracts  of  country.  The  same  thing  happens  in 
Wall  Street,  and  even  sometimes  in  the  districts  around 
Angel  Court. 

And  so  when  Charles  presented  his  letter  of  intro- 
duction it  was  n't  fancy  that  made  him  believe  his  re- 
ception was  rather  frigid.  The  letter  itself  ought  to  have 
carried  him  into  the  good  graces  of  any  one  of  Mr.  Gor- 
ham's  friends;  it  was  n't  enthusiastic,  but  it  made  it 
perfectly  clear  that  the  financier  wished  Charles  well, 
and  that  if  his  correspondent,  Mr.  Hepburn  Z.  Davison, 
could  help  him  along  he'd  be  obliged.  It  said  that  its 
bearer  wanted  a  chance  —  that  he  was  capable,  inter- 
ested in  railways,  would  begin  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder, 
and  so  on.  Its  delivery  was  after  the  fair.  Charles  would 
have  found  a  very  different  welcome  if  he  had  brought 
it  a  month  earlier.  Mr.  Davison  wasn't  a  business 
associate  of  Mr.  Gorham's;  his  fortunes  would  be  un- 
touched, whatever  happened  to  his  absent  friend.  But 
he  was  a  man  who  liked  to  row  in  with  success,  and 
something  or  other  made  him  know  that  Mr.  Gorham 
was  under  a  cloud.  Charles  suffered  accordingly.  Mr. 
Davison  was  polite.  He  drew  Charles  out.  He  discov- 
ered that  his  knowledge  of  railways,  even  of  English 
railways,  was  merely  the  result  of  schoolboy  interest  and 
amateur  curiosity,  that  he  'd  never  done  a  stroke  of  work 
in  his  life.  He  looked  at  Charles's  eyeglass;  he  looked  at 
his  spats.  Charles  was  uncomfortable.  Nevertheless, 
Mr.  Davison  was  cordial,  in  a  frigid  way.  Yes,  he  would 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO  WALL   STREET      263 

be  delighted  to  be  of  service  to  any  friend  of  Mr.  Gor- 
ham's.  He  would  inquire.  Of  course,  yes,  of  course, 
openings  of  a  really  promising  kind  were  n't  easy  to  find 
—  but  still  he'd  be  delighted  to  do  what  he  could.  He 
drew  his  lips  back  from  his  very  white  and  even  teeth, 
and  smiled  like  a  wolf.  And  where  was  Charles  stopping? 
At  the  Knickerbocker?  Indeed!  That  was  right  in  the 
theatre  quarter,  was  n't  it?  Mr.  Caerleon  must  come 
and  see  him  again.  And  in  the  mean  time  he'd  look 
round.  He'd  write  as  soon  as  he  could,  and  then,  look- 
ing at  Charles's  card  again  and  at  Mr.  Gorham's  let- 
ter: — 

"You  must  come  and  dine  with  us  one  evening,  Mr. 
Caerleon,  and  go  to  the  play.  I'd  like  you  to  see  our 
New  York  actors.  Mrs.  Davison '11  be  delighted." 

Even  an  American  is  attracted  by  a  title,  though  it 
be  but  a  courtesy  one. 

Now  Charles,  although  he  had  n't  done  a  stroke  of 
work  in  his  life,  was  no  fool.  I  hope  I  have  n't  given  you 
the  impression  that  he  was.  I  certainly  did  n't  mean  to. 
He  tumbled  to  the  inwardness  of  Mr.  Davison's  attitude 
almost  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  room.  And  after  that, 
while  he  fidgeted  under  his  cold  scrutiny,  and  gave  one 
ear  to  the  platitudes  that  were  being  uttered,  his  mind 
was  working  on  its  own  account.  He  realised  that  he 
was  n't  going  to  drop  into  a  soft  and  immediate  job 
through  any  patronage  of  which  Mr.  Davison  might 
dispose.  As  a  result,  he  did  a  rather  foolish  thing.  When 
Mr.  Davison  had  finished  what  he  had  to  say  and  was 
evidently  prepared  to  get  rid  of  him  as  quickly  as 
possible,  he  broke  in:  — 


264  CAVIARE 

"Mr.  Davison,  there  is  something  you  can  help  me  in 
now.  I  want  to  know  of,  to  have  an  introduction  to,  if 
possible,  a  good  stockbroker.  It 's  so  easy  for  a  stranger 
to  get  hold  of  the  wrong  kind  of  people.  I  wonder 
whether  you'd  tell  me  of  someone  I'd  be  safe  with?" 

Mr.  Davison  evidently  did  n't  like  the  idea,  did  n't 
approve  of  it.  He  darted  a  glance  at  Charles,  examined 
him  in  a  flash,  comprehensively  from  top  to  toe. 

"Oh,  yes,  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  can  tell  you  of  a  broker 
easily  enough.  But  if  you'll  take  the  advice  of  a  man 
much  older  than  yourself  —  and  much  more  experi- 
enced, I  think,"  —  he  bared  his  teeth  again  in  an  auto- 
matic smile,  —  "you'll  keep  out  of  Wall  Street.  Still, 
that's  your  business.  Sit  down;  I'll  write  you  a  line  to 
my  friends  Capper,  Zanthro  and  Company.  You'll 
be  safe  with  them.  They're  conservative."  And  he  sat 
down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  with  his  own  hand  the 
briefest  of  letters,  introducing  "Mr.  Charles  Caerleon, 
who  has  just  arrived  from  London  and  who  wants  a 
broker  on  whom  he  can  implicitly  rely."  Charles  thanked 
him  and  went  away.  He  did  n't  know  that  before  the 
elevator  had  reached  the  street  level  Mr.  Davison  had 
got  Mr.  Capper  on  the  telephone,  and  was  telling  him 
that  all  he  knew  about  the  gentleman  who  was  coming 
round  with  a  note  was  that  he'd  come  to  him  with  a 
letter  from  a  friend  in  England,  and  that  nobody  in 
Mr.  Capper's  business  was  to  think  that  he,  Davison, 
would  answer  for  his  having  a  cent.  Mr.  Capper  quite 
understood. 

Charles  did  feel  rather  like  a  sheep  as  he  walked  into 
the  palatial  offices  of  Capper,  Zanthro  and  Company. 


CHARLES   GOES    INTO  WALL   STREET      265 

I  can't  describe  them  to  you.  I've  never  been  in  Wall 
Street  —  in  that  sense,  anyway.  I  have  to  go  on  what 
Charles  has  told  me.  And,  as  by  and  by  you  '11  under- 
stand, he  not  unnaturally  looked  back  on  that  episode 
in  his  career  as  a  sort  of  Thousand  and  Second  Night. 
He  brought  away  few  clear  impressions. 

So  he  announced  himself  by  handing  to  the  door- 
keeper his  own  card  and  Mr.  Davison's  letter;  and  as 
Mr.  Davison  was  a  person  of  some  importance  in  this 
world  of  cash  values,  he  was  n't  kept  waiting  more  than 
a  minute.  The  private  office  he  was  shown  into  was 
something  new  in  his  experience.  In  the  middle  was  a 
huge  roll-top  desk  of  metal.  It  carried  three  telephones. 
It  was  a  big  room,  but  there  was  hardly  any  free  space 
in  it.  The  walls  were  crowded  with  what  at  first  sight 
looked  like  indifferent  oleographs,  but  which  Charles 
afterwards  identified  as  bad  examples  of  the  worst  period 
of  English  painting,  —  I  take  the  worst  period  to  be  the 
late  Victorian,  —  of  the  Barbizon  School,  of  recent 
German.  The  floor  was  largely  covered  with  massive 
bronzes  —  busts,  dying  warriors,  elephants,  and  so  on. 
You  'd  have  looked  in  vain  for  anything  really  good  as 
a  work  of  art.  Mr.  Capper  had  no  taste;  he  only  had 
money,  and  a  love  for  posing  as  a  patron  of  the  fine 
arts.  And  he  liked  to  be  busy  all  the  time  at  this  respect- 
able hobby.  He  liked  to  have  dealers  write  to  him  by 
every  mail  from  London  and  Paris  and  offer  him  unique 
examples.  He  liked  to  buy  something  every  few  days. 
When  he'd  bought  it  he  generally  forgot  all  about  it. 

Mr.  Capper  was  seated  at  his  desk.  He  had  an  intel- 
lectual forehead.   Charles  thought  that  it  was  perhaps 


266  CAVIARE 

in  the  wish  to  do  something  worthy  of  this  forehead 
that  he  'd  taken  up  the  arts. 

"Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Caerleon,  take  a  seat.  I  'm  mighty 
glad  to  know  you,  sir.  Mr.  Davison  says  you  want  a 
broker.  I  hope  we  can  fix  you  up.  What  exactly  can 
we  do  for  you?" 

He  did  n't  give  Charles  any  time  to  "get  acquainted," 
and,  indeed,  the  shocking  taste  of  the  objects  in  his 
room,  his  high  forehead,  and  the  rapidity  with  which 
he  fired  out  his  words,  almost  frightened  the  English- 
man away.  But  Charles  had  come  for  a  purpose.  Mr. 
Gorham's  friend  had  said  that  Capper,  Zanthro  and 
Company  were  trustworthy.  He  did  n't  see  how  you 
could  doubt  the  respectability  of  a  man  who  had  such 
a  Sidney  Cooper  on  one  side  of  him  and  such  a  Diaz  on 
the  other.  If  he  went  away  he  might  fare  worse  —  and 
also  he  might  lose  time.  Time,  he  had  an  idea,  was  the 
essence  of  the  matter.  It  was  to  be  only  a  question  of 
minutes  before  the  stock  in  which  he  was  interested 
would  be  soaring  up.  ...  So  Charles,  even  while  he 
thought  that  at  last  he  had  discovered  on  what  prey  the 
second-rate  dealers  of  London  and  Paris  lived,  pulled 
himself  together. 

"Mr.  Capper,  I  should  like  to  know,  as  I'm  thinking 
of  having  a  mild  flutter,"  —  the  American  language  was 
not  yet  altogether  ascendant,  —  "what  you  think  of 
Michigan  and  Illinois,  if  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  tell 
me." 

"Michigan  and  Illinois  —  oh,  well,  yes  —  um,"  — 
Mr.  Capper  wrinkled  his  broad  forehead  in  an  impressive 
manner  and  looked  round  at  his  possessions,  —  "Capper, 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO   WALL    STREET      267 

Zanthro  and  Company  don't  like  to  express  an  opinion 
about  the  stock  their  clients  are  interested  in.  It's  so 
easy  to  be  wrong.  But  you,  Mr.  Caerleon,  have  come 
with  so  good  an  introduction,  and  you  are  an  Enghsh- 
man.  I  must  make  an  exception  in  your  case.  Of  course 
you  want  to  sell.  Naturally.  I  think  they  '11  go  down  a 
little  more  and  then  stop  down  for  a  while.  Nothing  will 
go  up.  It's  a  bear  market.  And  it '11  remain  so  until  this 
disgraceful  attempt  on  Colonel  Roosevelt's  part  to  get 
the  Republican  nomination  is  finally  disposed  of  —  it 's 
scandalous;  but  you're  not  interested  in  our  politics, 
Mr.  Caerleon.  Let's  stick  to  business.  Here,  I'll  be 
very  frank,  although  it's  against  my  interest:  I  think 
that,  whatever  you  propose  to  deal  in,  the  present  mar- 
ket 's  a  very  good  one  to  stop  out  of.  There  may  be  a  rally. 
You  never  know:  M.  and  I.  may  go  up  —  a  point  or 
two.  /  don't  think  so,  but  they  won't  ask  my  permission. 
Still,  if  you  do  want  a  flutter  —  that 's  what  you  called 
it,  didn't  you?  I  like  to  learn  English  slang;  it's  so 
expressive  —  I  dare  say  you  '11  be  as  safe  selling  a  bear 
of  that  stock  as  in  anything  else." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  sell  a  bear  —  I  don't  want  to  sell 
Michigan  and  Illinois.  I  want  to  buy  —  I  want  to  buy 
as  many  as  I  can  afford." 

"To  buy!  But  you  must  be  mad,  Mr.  Caerleon. 
Excuse  me.  Of  course  if  you  want  to  buy,  and  to  pay  for, 
and  to  put  the  scrip  away  —  all  right,  well  and  good. 
Some  day,  when  Taf  t  's  got  his  second  term  all  right  and 
the  market 's  pulled  itself  together,  you  '11  perhaps  find 
you  've  made  something.  But  what  do  you  want  to  buy 
M.  and  I.  for?  Is  it  too  much  to  ask?" 


268  CAVIARE 

Charles  could  n't  answer  the  question.  He  'd  have  had 
some  difficulty  in  answering  it  even  to  himself.  To  buy 
a  stock  simply  because  it  was  recommended  to  him  by  a 
little  French  demi-mondaine,  as  new  to  the  country  as 
he  was  himself,  did  n't  suggest  itself  to  him  as  a  satis- 
factory reason. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Capper.  I  just  have  a  hunch 
that  it's  a  stock  worth  buying  at  this  moment." 

"Well,  young  man,  perhaps  you  're  right.  It  '11  be  your 
funeral.  The  stock 's  gone  down  steadily  for  days  and 
days  —  no,  not  steadily:  there  have  been  little  rallies. 
They  did  n't  amount  to  anything,  though.  If  indications 
count  for  anything  it'll  continue  to  go  down.  But  I've 
said  all  that.  What  exactly  do  you  propose  we  should  do 
for  you?" 

Charles  put  his  hand  into  the  opening  of  his  waistcoat 
and  pulled  out  his  carefully  folded  Bank  of  England 
notes.  Mr,  Capper,  with  his  shoddy  bronzes  and  his 
imitation  Millets,  had  unbalanced  him  a  little.  He  had 
n't  intended  to  go  the  whole  hog.  But  why  not,  while 
he  was  about  it?  He  was  rather  at  sea  as  to  the  proced- 
ure, but  he  drew  quickly  on  his  memory  of  American 
financial  novels. 

"Mr.  Capper,  here  are  five  Bank  of  England  notes; 
each  is  for  a  thousand  pounds  —  roughly,  I  suppose, 
twenty-five  thousand  dollars  in  your  money  altogether. 
I  want  you  to  buy  at  once  for  me  as  much  Michigan  and 
Illinois  shares  as  this  will  carry  —  on  margin,  I  mean : 
you  do  call  it  margin,  don't  you?  But  stop.  How  does 
the  stock  go?  I  mean,  does  it  go  up  or  down  a  dollar  a 
time  or  does  it  jump  or  drop  several  dollars?" 


CHARLES   GOES    INTO   WALL   STREET      269 

"Heaven  knows,  Mr.  Caerleon.  It  was  thirty -seven 
yesterday  when  the  Exchange  opened.  It  was  thirty-two 
when  it  closed.  I  really  don't  know  what  it  is  now.  I  '11 
find  out"  —  and  he  looked  at  the  door.  Presumably  he 
touched  some  bell  with  his  foot. 

A  clerk  came  in,  a  meagre  person.  "What's  M.  and 
I.  now  ?  "  Mr.  Capper  asked. 

The  clerk  was  well  posted.  "Twenty-nine  seven- 
eighths,  and  going  down  all  the  time." 

Mr.  Capper  looked  at  Charles.  "You  see,  it's  not  a 
market  to  buy  in.  It 's  dropping  all  the  time,  is  n't  it, 
Mr.  Murphy?"  Mr.  Murphy,  who  was  more  like  a 
shadow  than  an  Irishman,  assented. 

"That  answers  my  question,  Mr,  Capper,"  Charles 
said.  He  glanced  at  the  ormulu  clock.  It  was  eleven 
minutes  to  twelve.  "Let's  suppose  — and  I  take  it  that 
even  that  drop 's  pretty  unlikely  —  that  the  drop  can't 
be  more  than  a  dollar  a  time.  There  are  five  dollars  in  a 
pound.  Buy  me  twenty  thousand  of  the  stock.  That 
gives  a  dollar  margin  —  and  leaves  a  little  for  contin- 
gencies." 

Mr.  Capper  jumped  in  his  chair.  He  was  n't  very  used 
to  English  fools.  He  looked  at  Mr.  Murphy,  and  then 
at  his  mad  client.   But  Charles  did  n't  look  mad. 

"I'll  say  again,  Mr.  Caerleon,  that  it's  your  funeral. 
I  hope  you've  got  a  lot  more  notes  like  these.  You'll 
want  them  if  you're  coming  into  Wall  Street  on  this 
scale.  All  the  same,  if  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  is 
all  you  're  going  to  put  down,  I  '11  take  the  liberty  of  reduc- 
ing your  order.  Hurry,  though,  Mr.  Murphy.  Buy  Mr. 
Caerleon  five  thousand  M.  and  I.  at  the  market.    Come 


270  CAVIARE 

back  at  once."  Mr.  Murphy  slipped  through  the  door. 
"Twenty  thousand's  too  many  with  this  margin,  Mr. 
Caerleon.  You'll  excuse  me,  but  we're  from  Missouri 
here,  and  we  '11  presume  for  the  moment  that  that 's  all 
you  've  got  to  lose.  Where  'd  we  be  if  the  stock  ran  away 
like  the  Gadarene  swine?  In  the  cart,  you  call  it,  don't 
you?  Yes,  ten  thousand's  enough.  Mr.  Murphy '11  be 
back  in  a  moment,  and  then  I  '11  tell  him  to  buy  another 
five  thousand.  Or  no,  I'll  give  the  order  myself."  He 
turned  to  his  telephone  that  connected  with  the  floor  of 
the  Exchange,  and  after  a  moment's  delay  told  someone 
to  buy  five  thousand  M.  and  I.  right  away  —  and  then 
to  report. 

Mr.  Murphy  came  back.  "It's  done:  twenty-nine 
five-eighths  's  the  price." 

The  telephone  bell  rang.  Mr.  Capper  attended  to  it. 
He  repeated  what  he  heard.  "They  've  bought  you  the 
other  five  thousand:  twenty-nine  and  a  half." 

Charles,  who  was  used  to  gambling  in  thousand-franc 
notes  but  not  in  thousands  of  pounds  at  a  time,  felt 
his  spine  turning  to  water.  But  he  did  n't  propose  to 
let  Mr.  Capper  see  that.  He  was  in  the  soup  now,  and 
he  must  trust  to  his  good  luck.  He  seemed  to  have  lost 
five  thousand  eighths  of  a  dollar  already.  One  hundred 
and  twenty-five  pounds!  "Gee  whizz!"  But  he  said 
that  to  himself.  He  'd  be  ruined  when  this  had  happened 
thirty-eight  times  more.  It  would  take  about  twenty 
minutes  at  the  present  rate!  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
Three  minutes  to  twelve. 

Mr.  Capper  was  n't  one  of  those  brokers  who  kept  a 
ticker  in  his  own  private  oflSce.    He  only  kept  a  desk 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO   WALL   STREET      271 

there,  three  telephones,  and  a  medley  of  costly  rubbish. 
His  affectation  was  that  he  was  a  lover  of  art  first  and  a 
broker  afterwards.  And  he  was  supposed  to  frown  on 
undue  speculation.  He  engaged  Charles  now  in  a  little 
genial  conversation.  It  did  n't  advance  far.  Mr.  Mur- 
phy came  in  again.  "  I  thought  you  'd  wish  to  know  that 
M.  and  I.  's  down  to  twenty-eight  seven-eighths.  There 
seems  no  end  to  the  selling."  Mr.  Capper  told  him  to 
clear  out  and  to  come  back  when  it  was  down  another 
quarter,  and  then  he  looked  at  Charles  once  more  —  a 
process  of  which  both  he  and  his  client  were  a  little  tired, 
"Mr.  Caerleon,  you've  lost  round  about  fourteen  hun- 
dred pounds  in  your  money;  say  seven  thousand  dollars. 
Would  n't  you  like  to  quit?" 

Nothing  would  have  pleased  Charles  better.  He'd 
have  liked  to  quit  and  to  come  back  in  a  quarter  of  an 
hour  and  to  start  again.  He  'd  started  too  soon,  he  sup- 
posed. But  there  was  something  in  Mr.  Capper's  eye 
that  irritated  him.  A  gambler  often  feels  like  that. 
"Confound  it  all,"  he  says,  "I'll  show  them  I  can  lose!" 
He  felt  this  specially  with  Mr.  Capper.  He  would  n't 
show  the  white  feather  before  such  an  American.  No, 
indeed. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Capper;  I  appreciate  your  good  advice. 
But  I'll  hang  on.  Perhaps  it's  reached  the  bottom 
now." 

"Perhaps;  but  why  should  it?"  —  and  even  as  he 
spoke.  Murphy,  bird  of  ill  omen,  appeared. 

"It's  gone  off  another  quarter." 

Mr.  Capper  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  commis- 
eratingly  at  Charles.    "That  ought  to  settle  it,  Mr. 


272  CAVIARE 

Caerleon.  Wait,  Mr.  Murphy.  Look  here:  let's  close 
this  transaction,  Mr.  Caerleon.  You'll  lose  a  lot  more 
in  a  few  minutes." 

"Mr.  Murphy  needn't  wait  for  me,  Mr.  Capper," 
Charles  answered.  He  was  considerably  rattled,  but 
he'd  give  nothing  of  his  state  of  mind  away.  "I  put 
down  that  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  as  margin.  I  've 
not  lost  half  of  it  yet  — " 

"Pretty  near,"  was  Mr.  Capper's  happy  interruption. 

"Yes,  and  perhaps  half  has  gone  by  now.  But  I  put 
it  down  prepared  to  lose  it,  and  if  I  'm  not  in  your  way, 
I '11  see  it  out  —  I  shan't  keep  you  long,  if  you're 
right." 

Mr.  Capper  was  getting  rattled  himself.  He  rang  up 
on  the  telephone  again.  "Showing  every  sign  of  going 
on  dropping,  is  it?  Twenty-eight  and  a  half  now." 
Charles  listened.  He  yawned  —  not  because  he  was 
tired,  but  because  his  nerves  were  giving  way.  He 
thought  of  nothing  at  all.  His  mind  was  a  blank. 

Mr.  Murphy  came  back  once  more  —  with  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  news  that  Mr.  Capper  had  just  gained  on  the 
telephone.  "Oh,  get  out,"  Charles  wanted  to  say.  He'd 
have  hked  to  throw  a  rotten  little  couchant  leopard  that 
was  near  his  elbow  at  the  man's  stupid  head. 

Suddenly,  however,  Charles's  wits  returned.  He  felt 
master  of  himself  again.  He  was  ashamed.  What  had 
happened  might  have  been  anticipated.  It  was  n't  till 
midday  or  something  of  the  kind  that  Michigan  and 
Illinois  was  to  start  going  up.  If  he  was  paying  any 
attention  at  all  to  what  had  been  told  him  last  night. 


9n 


\-T 


M 


1^ 


i 


c;()iN(;  ox  DKoi'i'iMi,  IS  ri'v 


CHARLES  GOES    INTO   WALL   STREET      273 

then  it  certainly  behoved  him  to  pay  attention  to  the 
whole  of  it.  Now  it  was  simply  a  question  of  the  correct- 
ness of  the  information,  and,  in  the  event  of  it's  being 
correct,  whether  his  twenty -five  thousand  dollars  would 
enable  him  to  hold  out  till  the  market  turned.  The  next 
quarter  of  an  hour  would  answer  that  question.  And  if 
what  he  had  was  swept  away  —  well,  he'd  be  where  he 
was  before  he  went  to  Monte  Carlo.  No  better  and  no 
worse  off.  He  turned  to  Mr.  Capper,  who,  having  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  his  new  client  was  beyond  saving, 
was  engaged  in  an  attempt  to  understand  an  article  on 
Houdon  in  the  "Burlington." 

"  It 's  very  interesting  to  see  a  collection  like  this,  Mr. 
Capper;  but  your  French  paintings  seem  to  stop  with 
the  Barbizon  people.  Don't  you  take  any  interest  in  the 
Impressionists,  say?  And  what  about  the  modern  men? 
Cottet  —  Vuillard  —  Simon.  I  take  it  for  granted  you 
don't  like  the  cubistes,  so  I  won't  ask  about  them." 

Charles  was  bluffing,  of  course.  He  was  n't  as  cool  as 
all  that.  His  senses  were  alert  to  hear  the  step  of  Mr. 
Murphy  and  more  bad  news.  Still  he  took  Mr.  Capper 
in. 

"I  don't  approve  of  the  tendencies  of  modern  French 
art,  Mr.  Caerleon"  —  and  Mr.  Capper  again  wrinkled 
his  forehead,  and  looked  prophetic.  "Mark  my  words, 
none  of  the  men  nowadays  will  be  remembered  in  twenty 
years.  And  as  for  the  Impressionists,  I  would  n't  give 
that  for  them,  sir.  They  have  no  sense  of  beauty,  no 
reverence,  no  patience,  no  technique." 

Charles  thought  he'd  read  something  suspiciously 
like  that  in  the  duller  English  newspapers.  He  was  just 


274  CAVIARE 

on  the  point  of  declaring  his  own  sense  of  Mr.  Capper's 
wrongness  when  the  door  opened.  It  was  Mr.  Murphy. 

"M,  and  I.  has  taken  a  turn,  Mr.  Capper.  It's  a 
quarter  up  from  what  I  last  told  you — "  He  was 
cut  short  by  the  telephone  bell.  Mr.  Capper  turned 
to  it. 

"Hullo.  M.  and  I.  up,  is  it?  I'd  just  heard.  Lots  of 
buying  orders  suddenly.  Same  as  yesterday,  I  expect: 
don't  you?  Just  a  temporary  rally.  What's  it  now? 
Twenty-eight  seven-eighths.  Thanks.  Ring  up  again  in 
a  few  minutes.  Marsh,  will  you?  I  want  to  hear  if  the 
buying  continues."  And  then,  turning  to  Charles, 
"Well,  it's  coming  your  way  a  little  now,  Mr.  Caerleon. 
Let 's  hope  it  '11  come  far  enough.  If  you  take  my  advice, 
you'll  close  the  deal  if  it  once  gets  over  thirty.  That'd 
let  you  out." 

"We'll  see,"  Charles  answered.  "But  to  go  back  to 
what  we  were  talking  about.  Do  you  seriously  mean  to 
tell  me  that  Manet 's  got  no  technique,  that  Monet 's  got 
no  beauty?  And  although  it's  diflficult  to  see  what 
you've  got  here  among  all  your  beautiful  things,  yet 
I  don't  notice  any  Carpeaux  or  any  Dalous  among  your 
bronzes." 

Charles  was  getting  Mr.  Capper  on  the  raw.  It  was 
a  good  thing  that  the  broker  did  n't  control  the  move- 
ments of  M.  and  I.  They  'd  have  gone  down  with  a  flop, 
if  he  had.  He  did  n't  like  having  his  taste  questioned. 
And  besides,  he  really  did  n't  know  what  Charles  was 
talking  about.  He  had  n't  the  slightest  idea  of  what 
technique  was  in  relation  to  painting.  He'd  heard  of 
Manet  and  Monet,  but  he  had  n't  heard  of  the  other 


CHARLES  GOES   INTO   WALL   STREET      275 

painters  Charles  had  mentioned,  and  he  was  n't  clear 
whether  Carpeaux  was  a  kind  of  bronze  or  a  sculptor. 
In  any  case,  his  reason  for  not  buying  the  later  French 
men  was  that  they  cost  more  than  he  cared  to  risk.  He 
followed  the  line  of  least  resistance  in  his  purchases. 
Dealers  offered  him  what  they  knew  he'd  take.  He  was 
in  their  books  as  a  jay.  He'd  take  anything  as  long  as  it 
did  n't  come  over  a  certain  figure,  and  as  long  as  he 
could  be  induced  to  think  it  was  high  art.  Of  course  his 
Millets  were  forgeries;  his  Diaz  was  about  as  bad  as  it 
could  be;  Corot  never  put  that  careless  signature  on  the 
woodland  scene  that  he  had  over  the  mantelpiece  in  his 
Long  Island  drawing-room. 

"  When  you  've  been  collecting  and  studying  art  as  long 
as  I  have,  Mr.  Caerleon,  you'll  know  what  is  worth 
while  and  what  isn't.  You'll  have  a  taste  that'll  tell 
you  that  some  things  are  meretricious  and  won't  last. 
You'll  realise  that  you  can't  buy  all  schools,  the  bad 
as  well  as  the  good."  The  strange  thing  was  that  Mr. 
Capper  really  believed  in  all  his  truck;  he  really  believed 
in  his  own  taste,  his  own  prescience.  The  dealers  who 
had  him  in  tow  had  managed  him  well.  One  of  them  had 
been  very  clever.  Every  now  and  then,  when  he  was  on 
one  of  his  American  forays,  he  'd  drop  into  Mr.  Capper's 
office  and  would  ask  after  such  and  such  a  picture  or 
bronze  he'd  sold  him.  "Oh,  I've  got  that  at  home," 
Mr.  Capper  would  answer.  "  It 's  been  greatly  admired." 
The  dealer  would  sigh.  "Yes,  I  know.  I  ought  never 
to  have  sold  it  to  you.  I  suppose  you  would  n't  like  to  let 
me  have  it  back  at  twice  what  you  gave?  I  wish  you 
would.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  the  Louvre  came 


276  CAVIARE 

after  it,  and  are  always  reminding  me  now  that  I  ought 
to  have  asked  them  before  I  let  it  go  to  America.  They  'd 
take  it  now,  and,  even  if  I  pay  twice  what  you  paid,  I  '11 
make  a  handsome  profit."  He  had,  that  dealer,  all  the 
appearance  of  extreme  frankness.  And  he  knew  his 
customer.  Never  once  had  Mr.  Capper  taken  his  offer. 
He  thought,  did  this  brilliant  collector,  that  he  knew  a 
rising  market  when  he  saw  one. 

It  was,  however,  no  part  of  Charles's  programme  to 
irritate  Mr.  Capper's  self-complacency.  He  got  up  and 
began  to  examine  the  crowded  walls. 

"  So  that 's  a  Troy  on,' is  it?  A  very  unusual  and  curious 
example.  .  .  ."  But  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  browse 
at  will  in  this  museum  of  curiosities.  The  telephone  bell 
rang  again.  He  turned  round.  Mr.  Capper  looked  at 
him  and  held  his  hand  up.  In  a  minute  he  hung-up  the 
receiver. 

"Well,  Mr.  Caerleon,  you  seem  to  have  dropped  into 
Wall  Street  at  the  —  what  do  they  call  it?  —  the  psy- 
chological moment  for  M.  and  I.  My  man  tells  me 
there 's  a  great  deal  of  buying,  and  that  there  seem  to  be 
orders,  judging  by  the  firms  who  are  dealing,  both  from 
Europe  and  the  West." 

"What's  the  stock  now,  though,  Mr.  Capper?" 

"  It  was  thirty  and  five-eighths  a  minute  or  two  ago. 
I  '11  give  you  advice  again,  Mr.  Caerleon.  I  told  you  that 
this  is  a  good  time  to  keep  out  of  the  market  —  it 's  a 
better  time  to  get  out  of  it,  especially  if  you  can  do  so 
at  a  profit.  I  hate  to  see  our  clients  lose.  Now  just  write 
me  a  memorandum  to  sell  your  shares  when  it 's  reached 
thirty-two.  Personally,  I  'd  like  to  sell  it  now,  but  I  don't 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO   WALL   STREET      277 

suppose  you'd  stand  for  that?"  He  looked  at  Charles, 
who  shook  his  head. 

"Well,  if  indications  count  for  anything,  it'll  go  up 
for  a  while.  Three  or  four  dollars,  perhaps.  Let's  sup- 
pose that  you  get  out  at  thirty-four :  you  '11  be  five  points 
to  the  good.  You  've  got  ten  thousand,  bought  at  twenty- 
nine  five-eighths  and  twenty-nine  and  a  half.  You  'd  have 
cleared  over  five  thousand  pounds  in  your  money." 

Charles  took  out  a  pencil  and  asked  for  a  bit  of  paper. 
He  made  some  rapid  calculations,  and  then:  — 

"  Mr.  Capper,  is  n't  there  something  you  call  pyra- 
miding on  this  side  of  the  water?  What  I  mean  is,  can't 
I  use  my  profits  as  further  margin?" 

"You  can  if  you  like,  certainly,  Mr.  Caerleon."  This 
Englishman  was  a  very  nervy  proposition. 

"Well,  I've  made  ten  thousand  dollars  on  the  last 
price  given  you.  That's  two  thousand  pounds.  If  I'm 
right,  ask  your  clerk,  please,  to  buy  me  another  ten  thou- 
sand as  quick  as  he  can,  and  to  start  buying  an  additional 
five  thousand  at  each  dollar  advance.  Please  do  it  at 
once." 

Mr.  Capper  summoned  Mr.  Murphy  and  repeated  the 
instructions.   Mr.  Murphy  blinked  and  disappeared. 

"I'd  better  write  that  down,  Mr.  Capper;  and  I  want 
to  add  something  more." 

"Yes,  you'd  better,  Mr.  Caerleon.  Don't  let's  have 
any  misunderstanding.  Come  and  sit  here,"  and  he 
swept  on  one  side  a  lot  of  Christie's  catalogues  so  as  to 
make  a  clear  place  for  Charles  to  write. 

Charles  was  very  business-like.  Was  n't  this  his  first 
day  of  real  work? 


278  CAVIARE 

To  Messrs.  Capper,  Zanthro.  and  Company. 

Having  bought  for  me  this  morning  five  thousand 
Michigan  and  IlUnois  at  twenty-nine  and  five-eighths 
and  five  thousand  at  twenty-nine  and  a  half,  please  buy 
an  additional  ten  thousand  now  that  the  price  is  thirty 
and  five-eighths,  and  start  buying  an  additional  five 
thousand  at  thirty -one  and  at  each  even  dollar  advance, 
until  forty  is  reached.  At  that  point  start  buying  ten 
thousand,  and  start  buying  ten  thousand  more  at  each 
dollar  advance.  If  there's  a  drop,  hold  on  to  the  stock  as 
long  as  my  margin  is  suflBcient;  but  if  it's  nearly  swept 
away,  sell  at  the  point  that  your  own  interests  demand 
that  you  should  avoid  risk.  But  don't  sell  till  you 
have  to. 

Charles  Caerleon. 

(Knickerbocker  Hotel.) 

He  blotted  the  paper  and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Capper. 

"Is  that  clear,  Mr.  Capper?" 

Mr.  Capper  read  it,  and  whistled,  and  whistled  again. 
"Yes,  it's  quite  clear,  Mr.  Caerleon.  It's  also,  if  I  may 
say  so,  rather  mad.  Is  n't  there  a  phrase  in  England  — 
going  for  the  gloves?  Is  that  what  you're  doing?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Charles  got  up  and  took  his  hat 
and  stick.  "I  don't  know  that  I'm  going  for  the  gloves, 
but  I  do  know  that  Michigan  and  Illinois  is  going  up. 
I  'II  see  something  of  New  York  now.  I've  got  the 
Baedeker  map  in  my  pocket.  But  please  tell  me,  Mr. 
Capper,  am  I  right  in  believing  that  it'd  be  worth  my 
while  to  go  right  down  to  the  end  of  the  island  — the 
Battery,  they  call  it,  don't  they?" 


CHARLES   GOES   INTO   WALL   STREET      279 

Mr.  Capper  wondered  if  he  'd  misjudged  the  English 
character.  All  he  could  say  was,  that  it  would  be  very 
well  worth  Mr.  Caerleon's  while  to  go  and  see  the  Bat- 
tery; but  had  n't  he  better  stay  where  he  was  now  and 
see  what  was  happening  to  his  stock? 

Charles  thought  not.  "You  see,  I've  only  been  here 
since  yesterday  morning,  Mr.  Capper.  I'd  like  to  know 
more  of  your  city.  And  I  must  get  some  lunch.  That 
stock's  all  right.  It'll  go  up  all  the  time.  You  see. 
You  '11  let  a  clerk  give  me  a  copy  of  that  paper,  won't 
you,  so  that  there  may  n't  be  any  misapprehension  in 
my  mind  as  to  what  my  instructions  were.  I'll  come 
back  for  it  after  lunch." 

Mr.  Capper  answered  that  of  course  a  copy  would  be 
made,  and  Mr.  Murphy,  appearing  opportunely,  was 
given  the  paper  as  Mr.  Caerleon's  last  instructions.  "  M. 
and  I.'s  at  thirty -one  and  a  half  now." 

Mr.  Capper  became  human  under  these  signs  of  his 
client's  prosperity.  "You're  going  some,  young  man," 
he  said.  "I'd  like  to  show  you  some  of  this  section  of 
the  city  myself,  and  take  you  to  the  club  to  lunch, 
especially  as  you're  a  stranger;  but  I  guess  I'd  better 
stop  here  and  keep  an  eye  on  your  stock." 

"I  hate  to  spoil  your  lunch,  Mr.  Capper;  but  still,  if 
you  think  so  —  Tell  me  one  thing,  though,  before  I  go. 
Is  Michigan  and  Illinois  a  railway?" 

Mr.  Capper  is  never  sure  whether  he  answered  that 
question. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  WHICH  THE  LITTLE  BLUE  TURBAN  PROVES  HERSELF  A 
VERY   MASCOTTE 

CHARLES  did  find  the  Battery  very  much  worth 
while,  but  he  was  hardly  in  fit  state  to  appre- 
ciate the  beauties  it  commanded.  It  is  n't  to  be 
wondered  at  that  his  mind  was  in  a  ferment.  He  had  n't 
made  quite  five  thousand  pounds  that  morning,  but  he 
was  most  of  the  road  to  their  making;  Mr.  Capper  had 
talked  on  that  basis.  What  ought  he  to  do?  Ought  he 
to  sell  out?  He  thought  not.  After  all,  he  was  hereto 
make  money.  And  he  had  no  other  interest  to  his  hand. 
Besides,  it  would  be  flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  to 
quit  at  the  very  moment  when  everything  was  coming 
his  way,  when  all  was  happening  as  he  had  been  told  it 
would. 

And  there  was  another  reason  for  his  disquiet.  He'd 
passed,  as  he  walked  down  Broadway,  the  steamship 
oflices.  He  had  had  to  take  a  grip  on  himself  to  avoid 
going  to  the  Cunard  oflBce  and  booking  a  passage  in  the 
very  ship  that  had  brought  him  over.  And  then  when  he 
got  down  to  the  Battery  the  first  thing  he  saw  was  a  boat 
starting  for  the  other  side.  It  made  a  brave  show  in  the 
sunshine. 

Charles  was  lonely,  and  he  was  homesick. 

Later  on,  in  a  rather  more  cheerful  mood,  and  having 
lunched,  Charles  went  back  to  Wall  Street  and  the  oflSce 


A   VERY   MASCOTTE  281 

of  Messrs.  Capper,  Zanthro  and  Company.  He  was  n't 
in  any  hurry :  he  'd  had  as  much  excitement  as  he  cared 
for  for  one  day.  He  did  n't  want  to  take  up  again  this 
tale  of  eighths  and  quarters.  But  it  was  certainly  neces- 
sary to  return.  Perhaps  he'd  have  reached  the  fifteen 
thousand  by  now.  He  was  a  little  curious  about  his 
brokers,  too.  Mr.  Capper's  office,  with  all  its  ginicrack 
contents,  did  n't  evoke  any  great  confidence.  True,  he 
had  n't  really  seen  it.  He  'd  only  seen  an  anteroom,  from 
which  he'd  been  ushered  straight  into  Mr.  Capper's 
private  room.  How  different  that  was,  though,  from  his 
conception  of  a  Wall  Street  office!  This  time,  entering 
the  anteroom  and  finding  it  for  the  moment  untenanted, 
he  pushed  through  into  the  farther  rooms.  There  he 
found  the  real  thing.  This  was  what  he'd  read  about. 
Here  were  enough  tape  machines,  enough  clerks,  and 
enough  clients,  too,  apparently,  if  he  could  judge  from 
the  fact  that  there  were  several  people  sitting  about  who 
did  n't  seem  to  have  any  work  to  do.  There  was  also  a 
large  blackboard  with  words  and  hieroglyphics  on  it. 
But  Charles  was  n't  allowed  to  look  round  for  long  un- 
attended. Mr.  Murphy  rushed  across  the  room.  "  Come, 
Mr.  Caerleon,  come  in  to  Mr.  Capper.  He's  been  asking 
for  you." 

Mr.  Capper  had,  Indeed,  been  asking  for  Charles.  He 
was  walking  to  and  fro  and  more  than  a  little  worried 
at  the  non-appearance  of  his  client.  Michigan  and 
Illinois  had  increased  its  upward  pace.  Its  last  price  was 
thirty-nine  seven-eighths.  The  execution  of  his  client's 
instructions  was  n't  easy.  You  don't  buy  big  block  of 
stock  after  big  block  by  just  nodding  your  head.    It 


282  CAVIARE 

wanted  some  doing.  He  could  n't  understand  why- 
Charles  had  n't  come  back.  Seeing  him,  he  started  at 
once:  — 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  I  wonder  you  were  n't  in  before.  You 
still  want  us  to  hold  on  to  that  stock.?  Don't  you  think 
you'd  better  clear  out  now.''" 

"Why,  has  it  been  going  down?"  Charles  didn't 
think  it  had,  but  thought  he'd  better  speak  as  if  he  was 
prepared  for  eventualities. 

"Going  down!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you've  not 
seen.''  Why,  it's  worrying  the  whole  'Change." 

"Yes,  but  has  it  gone  down?  Have  I  lost  all  I've 
made?" 

"No,  sir.  You  have  not;  the  blessed  stock  's  at  more 
than  forty  now,  I  should  think.  You  must  have  made 
more  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  what 
with  your  first  purchases  and  what  we  've  bought  for  you 
since." 

"Oh,  well,  Mr.  Capper,  if  it's  as  good  as  that"  — 
Charles  was  being  purposely  slow  in  his  manner  of  speak- 
ing; he  did  n't  exactly  want  to  irritate  the  broker,  but 
he  did  wish  to  show  that  Englishmen  did  n't  get  so  very 
easily  excited  —  "and  if  it's  reached  forty,  you've 
started  buying  me  ten  thousand  at  each  point  advance. 
Is  n't  that  so?" 

"Yes,  it  is,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that,  glad  as 
we  are  to  have  a  good  customer,  it 's  giving  us  plenty  of 
work.  I've  been  on  the  floor  myself.  You're  not  the 
only  man  who  is  buying.  Of  course,  there 's  the  crowd 
who  are  buying  small  lots  just  because  the  stock 's  going 
up,  but  there  are  several  other  big  buyers,  acting,  as  far 


A  VERY   MASCOTTE  283 

as  I  can  see,  for  the  big  fellows.  The  bears  are  getting 
frightened,  too;  there's  a  lot  of  bear  closing." 

Charles  did  n't  know  who  the  "big  fellows"  were,  and 
he  had  n't  time  to  ask.  He  supposed  they  were  the  men 
whose  purchases  were  to  send  the  stock  up.  Certainly, 
they  'd  done  their  work. 

"I'm  grateful  to  you,  Mr.  Capper,  for  the  trouble 
you're  taking.  How  much  stock  have  I  got  now.'*  I 
wonder  if  you  can  tell  me?" 

"I  can't:  we're  placing  your  orders  as  fast  as  ever 
we  can.  But  Murphy  will  know  how  you  stand.  I  '11 
ask.  .  .  .  Mr.  Murphy,  how  much  stock  has  Mr.  Caer- 
leon  now?" 

"  We ' ve  just  started  buying  Mr.  Caerleon's  third  ten 
thousand.  The  stock's  over  forty -two  now.  That'll 
make  his  holding  ninety-five  thousand." 

"That  ought  to  be  enough  even  for  an  Englishman, 
Mr.  Caerleon,"  Mr.  Capper  said.  "Shall  we  stop  buy- 
ing now?" 

"No,  Mr.  Capper,  but  you  can  stop  buying  when 
you've  bought  me  another  two  hundred  thousand; 
that  '11  be  when  the  stock  reaches  sixty-two,  or  some- 
thing over,  according  to  the  trouble  you  have  in  getting 
it,  I  suppose." 

"And  can  we  start  selling  —  discreetly,  of  course  — 
at  the  first  dollar  rise  after  all  your  orders  are  exe- 
cuted?" 

"You  may  not.  But  now  tell  me:  how  much  do  I 
make  with  each  dollar  advance  on  the  basis  of  my  pre- 
sent ninety-five  thousand?" 

"Why,  that's  simple.  With  every  dollar  advance  you 


284  CAVIARE 

make  ninety-five  thousand  dollars  —  not  much  less  than 
twenty  thousand  pounds  in  your  money." 

Charles  did  not  find  it  very  easy  to  control  his  emo- 
tion. He  took  out  his  case  and  selected  a  cigarette. 
"May  I  smoke,  Mr.  Capper?" 

Mr.  Capper  objected  very  much  to  anyone  smoking 
among  his  treasures,  but  he  did  n't  say  so. 

Charles's  brain  had  n't  really  grasped  the  figures  he'd 
been  given.  He  realised  that  by  some  extraordinary 
fortune  he  was  on  the  crest  of  the  wave,  that  he  was 
making  more  money  than  he'd  ever  dreamed  of  having, 
but  what  it  all  meant  he  had  n't  thought.  Perhaps  if  he 
had  been  better  prepared  for  these  possibilities  he  'd  have 
understood  more  clearly,  and  would  have  been  more 
moved.  Twenty  thousand  pounds  every  two  or  three 
minutes  —  that  was  about  what  it  worked  out  at. 

He  thought  he'd  better  leave  Mr.  Capper  to  his 
treasures  and  to  the  execution  of  his  new  instructions. 
Perhaps  if  he  went  back  to  the  Knickerbocker  and  had 
a  hot  bath  he'd  fell  less  rattled. 

"  Well,  I  'm  going.  I  '11  look  in  again  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. It's  understood  you  cease  buying  for  me  after 
I've  got  two  hundred  and  ninety-five  thousand.  That's 
so,  is  n't  it?  And  oh,  tell  me  —  I  know  some  of  the 
names  of  your  magnates  here  —  who  are  the  'big  fel- 
lows' you  speak  of  as  perhaps  buying  Michigan  and 
Illinois?" 

"  I  can't  say  with  any  certainty.  But  Ream  is  buying, 
I  think:  it's  a  pool,  I  fancy.  One  does  n't  know  what 
they're  aiming  at.  Control,  perhaps.  Pyle's  in  it,  too, 
I'm  pretty  sure  — " 


A  VERY   MASCOTTE  285 

"Oh,  Pyle  —  what  do  they  call  him?  Has  n't  he  got 
some  sort  of  nickname?" 

"Not  a  nickname  exactly,  but  people  call  him  'Old 
Man  Pyle'  generally.  If  I'm  right  and  he's  in  this  deal, 
he  won't  like  you,  you  can  bet  your  bottom  dollar.  '  Old 
Man  Pyle '  don't  approve  of  anyone  butting  in  when  he's 
doing  business." 

Charles's  brain  began  to  go  round  and  round.  So  he 
was  interfering  with  "Old  Man  Pyle's"  game,  was  he  — 
with  "Old  Man  Pyle,"  who  was  responsible  for  Mr. 
Gorham's  kidnapping?   What  an  odd  mix-up! 

Making  some  excuses  to  Mr.  Capper,  who  did  n't 
wish  him  to  leave,  and  telling  him  that  he  did  n't  think 
he'd  be  anywhere  where  he  could  be  called  on  the  tele- 
phone till  after  midnight,  Charles  started  to  go  away. 
Mr.  Capper  was  full  of  respect  for  his  English  client 
now.  "I've  sent  a  card  for  you  to  the  University  Club 
and  one  to  the  Union  League,  Mr.  Caerleon:  they're 
both  comfortable.  You  can  go  straight  to  either  of  them, 
if  you  like.  But  I  wish  you  'd  stop  here  till  the  Exchange 
closes." 

Charles  shook  his  head,  expressed  his  gratitude  for 
the  cards,  and  beat  a  retreat.  He  wanted  air. 


CHAPTER  XI 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  HAS  AN  ENTIRELY 
NOVEL  SENSATION  —  AND  ONE  OF  WHICH  FEW  OF  US 
CAN   BOAST 

IN  vulgar  phrase,  Charles  did  n't  know  whether  he 
was  standing  on  his  head  or  his  heels.  Here  he  was 
in  New  York.  He'd  reached  it  yesterday,  and 
already  within  thirty -six  hours  he'd  made  as  many 
thousand  pounds.  He  felt  he  was  Aladdin's  friend,  or 
that  Second  Calendar,  son  of  a  King,  on  whom  so  many 
mysterious  things  had  been  so  vehemently  enjoined. 
In  the  heart  of  New  York,  among  Americans,  it  had 
behoved  him  to  be  self-possessed :  he  thought  he  'd  car- 
ried himself  well  enough.  But  now  —  oh,  thirty  thou- 
sand pounds!  Perhaps  only  his  pride  had  prevented  his 
seizing  them  at  the  moment  he  knew  he'd  made  them. 
He  felt  now  that  in  the  background  of  all  that  had 
passed,  Alison's  eyes  had  watched  him.  Thirty  thousand 
pounds !  Would  n't  that  alter  Mr.  Gorham's  whole 
attitude? 

I've  said  somewhere  that  Charles  had  contradictory 
sides  to  his  character.  Indeed,  it  was  true.  And  one  of 
the  sides,  one  of  the  facets,  was  of  extreme  common 
sense.  He  knew,  and  he  did  n't  conceal  from  himself  as 
he  walked  up  Broadway  past  Grace  Church  and  the 
Wanamaker  store,  that  thirty  thousand  pounds  might 
in  the  present  circumstances  make  all  the  difference  with 


CHARLES'S   ENTIRELY   NOVEL   SENSATION    287 

Mr.  Gorham — but  that  he  'd  think  worse  of  Mr.  Gorham 
if  it  did.  After  all,  what  were  thirty  thousand  pounds? 
An  income  of  fifteen  hundred  pounds,  at  the  most. 
That,  in  Mr.  Gorham's  view,  would  pay  for  the  upkeep 
of  his  daughter's  cars!  And  it  had  n't  been  earned  — 
unless  anxiety  earns  money!  He  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  tempt  Mr.  Gorham  with  the  initial  five  thou- 
sand of  his  new  fortune.  Mr.  Gorham  had  laid  stress  on 
his  working,  on  his  actually  earning  money. 

Charles  argued  with  himself  as  he  walked.  Mr.  Gor- 
ham had  intended  that  Mr.  Davison  should  find  him 
work.  That  was  clear.  Mr.  Davison  was  n't  likely  to. 
That,  too,  was  clear.  In  the  circumstances,  he  must 
take  advantage  of  everything  that  came  his  way.  Add 
what  had  just  come  —  provided  it  had  n't,  like  fairy 
gold,  vanished  in  the  morning !  —  to  what  he  'd  brought 
from  Monte  Carlo,  and  he'd  got  enough  to  use  with 
some  chance  of  success,  granted  any  share  of  fortune. 
Remained  the  problem  of  whether  or  not  in  the  morning 
he  should  be  satisfied  with  his  profit,  and  promptly  sell 
out.  That  problem  should  rest  for  a  few  hours.  He 
would  n't  attempt  to  decide  it  until  after  to-morrow's 
breakfast. 

And  he  was  damned  if  he'd  find  out  the  afternoon 
happenings  to  Michigan  and  Illinois  in  the  paper,  either. 
The  fates  had  helped  him.  He  'd  leave  himself  in  their 
hands. 

Arrived  at  his  hotel,  Charles  went  to  his  room  and  at 
once  into  a  hot  bath.  He  lay  in  it  —  and  thought  and 
thought.  Hot  baths  were  a  habit  with  him.  He  thought 
of  Alison,  of  his  luck  since  he  had  left  her  at  the  Gare 


288  CAVIARE 

de  Lyon,  of  the  share  the  young  Frenchwoman  had  had 
in  what  had  happened,  of  Mr.  Gorham's  fortunes:  his 
mind  would  n't  be  still  —  it  ran  to  and  fro  like  a  squirrel. 
Never  in  the  whole  of  the  thirty-three  years  of  his  life 
could  he  remember  —  unless  it  had  been  a  week  ago  at 
Monte  Carlo  —  being  afraid  of  the  emptiness  of  the 
coming  hours.  How  could  he  spend  in  this  fierce,  un- 
friendly city,  the  rest  of  the  day?  What  could  he  do? 

The  hours  passed.  Charles  dressed  and  went  down- 
stairs and  pleased  his  friend,  the  French  maitre  dlioiel, 
by  telling  him  what  he  thought  of  the  hotel's  cuisine. 
What  he  was  really  thinking  of,  though,  was  how  he 
could  best  communicate  with  Alison.  There  was  no 
mail  for  thirty-six  hours.  To  cable  would  be  too  much. 
But  perhaps  a  cable  letter  —  Charles  sent  quickly  for 
a  cable  form,  and  as  he  finished  his  coffee,  thought  out 
what  he  could  usefully  say :  — 

"May  I  not  have  your  news  am  here  for  present 
please  let  me  hear  am  naturally  anxious  is  there  any- 
thing I  can  do  for  you  or  Mrs.  Phillips  in  New  York." 

"As  if  she  has  n't  a  hundred  friends  to  whom  she  can 
appeal  if  she  wants  anything  done  over  here!"  Charles 
added  to  himself,  as  he  signed  his  name  "Caerleon, 
Knickerbocker  Hotel."  All  the  same,  he  was  proud  of 
his  diplomacy  in  adding  the  "or  Mrs.  Phillips." 

Alison  would  get  the  cable  when  she  was  called  in 
the  morning  —  for  it  was  about  midnight  in  Paris.  He 
could  hope  for  an  answer  during  the  next  day  —  if  only 
she  cared  to  cable.  But  he  felt  that  was  unlikely.  She 
had  not  been  too  kind.  He  had  very  little  confidence. 


CHARLES'S   ENTIRELY   NOVEL   SENSATION    289 

Charles  then  did  what  he  would  have  done  in  England : 
he  went  to  the  theatre.  He  could  n't  expect  that  it  would 
occupy  his  mind,  but  it  might  help  to  pass  a  couple  of 
hours.  He  chose  a  musical  comedy.  At  least  it  would  n't 
make  too  great  a  demand  on  his  attention.  Besides,  he  'd 
seen  "The  Belle  of  New  York."  That  had  taught  Lon- 
don a  lot.  Perhaps  all  American  plays  of  the  kind  w^ere 
like  it. 

Charles  soon  found  they  were  n't.  And  he  could  n't 
bring  himself  to  like  the  energetic  rubbish  that  he 
learned  generally  passed  for  musical  comedy  on  Broad- 
way. However,  New  York  —  he'd  discovered  already 
—  did  so  many  things  better  than  they  're  done  where 
Charles  came  from  that  it  could  afford  Mr.  George 
Edwardes  his  triumphs. 

Coming  out  of  the  theatre,  Charles  heard  and  saw 
that  there  had  been  excitements  on  Wall  Street,  People 
were  speaking  of  the  stock  market,  and  the  bills  of  the 
papers  were  eloquent  of  something  unusual.  He  would 
n't  listen,  and  he  averted  his  eyes.  If  there 'd  been  an 
almighty  slump,  and  if  he'd  lost  all  he'd  made  and 
all  he'd  bought  —  well,  he'd  learn  it  soon  enough.  He 
could  n't  do  anything  between  now  and  breakfast,  any- 
how. If  Mr.  Capper  had  had  to  sell  out  his  stock,  he'd 
no  doubt  done  so  at  some  moment  that  meant  no  risk 
to  himself,  and  that  equally  would  mean  that  he'd 
have  a  few  hundred  dollars  to  hand  back.  They  could 
n't  have  lost  the  exact  five  thousand  pounds.  He  won- 
dered whether  he  should  have  supper.  He  might  look  in 
at  the  Knickerbocker  Hotel  grill-room.  His  friend,  the 
maitre  dlwtel,  had  told  him  it  was  a  sight  after  the 


290  CAVIARE 

theatre.   It  certainly  was.  Charles  approached  it  from 
the  hall  of  the  hotel.   An  attendant  asked  for  his  coat 
and  hat.  He  would  n't  give  them  up,  as  he  was  n't  sure 
he  would  n't  go  at  once  to  his  room  after  looking  round 
the  room.  Room,  do  I  call  it.?  He  could  see  it  over  the 
heads  of  the  crowd  that  were  clamouring  for  admission. 
It  seemed  the  size  of  a  football  field.  Indeed,  one  of  the 
things  that  most  astonished  Charles,  who  had  been  used 
to  the  smaller  publics  of  London,  Paris,  and  Berlin,  was 
the  enormous  number  of  people  who  throng  the  supper 
places  of  New  York.  There  seemed  to  him  a  half-hun- 
dred places,  each  as  big  as  any  place  he  knew  of  in 
London  or  Paris,  all  of  which  became  crammed  as  mid- 
night approached,  and  each  of  which  was  not  only  as  big, 
but  far,  far  more  gorgeous,  more  splendid,  more  ornate 
—  even  sometimes  in  better  taste.   But  he  was  n't  to 
get  into  the  Knickerbocker  grill-room.  As  he  was  stop- 
ping in  the  hotel,  and  as  he  was  always  in  the  habit  of 
having  the  waiter-mind  recognise  his  ascendancy,  he 
pushed  past  the  first  guardians  of  the  velvet  rope  that 
was  stretched  across  the  entrance.  He  had  the  impres- 
sion that  policemen  were  being  employed  to  keep  back 
the  crush.  Perhaps  that  was  an  exaggeration.  But  cer- 
tainly the  keeping  back  was  on  the  strong-arm  principle. 
Charles  had  a  vague  Paris  memory  of  the  maitre  d'hotel 
who  was  the  Peter  of  this  heaven,  and  asked  with  cus- 
tomary politeness  if  he  could  have  a  table.  The  maitre 
d" hotel  glared:  "Can't  you  see  the  crowd?   You've  not 
booked  a  table.    Anyhow,  you  can't  go  in  with  your 
coat  and  hat."    Charles  found  himself  pushed  on  one 
side.  Poor  Charles!  Where  was  the  amenity  he 'd  been 


CHARLES'S   ENTIRELY   NOVEL   SENSATION    291 

used  to?  And  the  gibe  at  his  coat  and  hat  cut  him  to  the 
quick.  His  hat,  it  was  true,  was  on  his  head,  because  he 
was  n't  yet  in  the  room,  but  his  coat  was  on  his  arm. 

The  episode  distracted  his  mind.  He  went,  indignant, 
to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  REFUSES  TO  HAVE  HIS 
BREAKFAST  DISTURBED,  AND  ACCEPTS  AN  INVITATION 
TO  DINNER 

SLEEP  well,  and  there  is  no  trouble,  no  anxiety, 
no  ecstasy  of  happiness  or  good  fortune  that 
will  shake  the  nerves.  Charles  slept  well.  He 
had  gone  to  bed  so  indignant  with  the  whole  American 
system  that  for  the  time  he  hardly  remembered  he  had 
troubles  of  his  own.  But  he  dreamt,  and  he  woke  rather 
earlier  than  usual,  and  it  was  many  minutes  short  of 
eight  o'clock  when,  with  a  New  York  "American"  in  his 
hand,  he  sat  down  to  breakfast. 

Anxious  curiosity  tore  at  his  vitals,  but  he  would  n't 
give  way  to  it.  He  eat  his  stewed  pears  and  cream  just  as 
if  a  great  fortune  was  n  't  in  the  balance,  and  he  read  all 
the  scandals  and  sensations  of  his  newspaper's  first  page 
exactly  as  usual.  Partly  it  was  courage,  nerve,  but  even 
more  it  was  cowardice.  He  knew  that  if  he  turned  the 
leaves  he  would  find  Mr.  Thomas  C.  Shotwell  explaining 
to  the  world  the  true  inwardness  of  whatever  had  hap- 
pened overnight  in  Wall  Street.  Michigan  and  Illinois 
had  had  a  place  in  the  headlines  yesterday.  To-day, 
surely,  it  would  figure  in  letters  an  inch  high.  But  how  ? 

So  Charles  read  on,  and  did  n  't  really  know  what  he 
read.  And  as  he  turned  from  page  one  to  page  two,  as  he 
saw  with  averted  mind  how  "  woman  falls  out  of  window 


AN   INVITATION  TO  DINNER  293 

as  auto  kills  small  boy,"  and  how  "police  hypnotised 
Anna  B.  Runyon  defence  contends,"  as  he  struggled 
with  the  latest  news  from  Mr.  Hammerstein  and  the 
adventures  of  Mutt  and  Jeff,  he  thought  of  all  it  would 
mean  to  him  if  the  price  of  Michigan  and  Illinois  had  n't 
broken.  He  would  be  content  even  if  it  had  remained  at 
the  figure  it  had  reached  when  yesterday  he  left  the 
offices  of  Capper,  Zanthro  and  Company.  Thirty  thou- 
sand pounds,  say.  It  was  all  very  well  for  him  to  have 
said  yesterday  that,  while  as  an  argument  with  Mr. 
Gorham  that  sum  might  now  be  sufficient,  yet  as  a  pro- 
vision for  his  future  and  Allison's  it  was  really  inade- 
quate. He'd  said  that  when  he'd  been  excited.  He 
was  n't  excited  this  morning.  But  perhaps  it  was  fairy 
gold. 

He  felt  at  length  that  he  could  no  longer  postpone 
turning  the  page  which  would  tell  him  his  fate.  He  took 
a  mouthful  of  tea,  looked  at  his  watch,  glanced  round 
the  room,  and  took  up  the  paper  — 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  Mr.  Caerleon,  Mr.  Caerleon." 

He  was  being  "paged."  Such  a  thing  had  n't  hap- 
pened to  him  before.  It  was  rather  odd  to  hear  his  name 
called  out  in  these  alien  halls.  The  idea  shot  into  his 
mind  that  to  be  called  by  one's  name  was  altogether 
more  happy  than  by  the  number  of  one's  room.  And  yet 
there  were  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  people  in  the  hotel. 
His  room  was  one  thousand  and  twenty-three.  Another 
thing  they  do  better  in  America! 

"Here,"  called  Charles  to  the  bell-boy,  who,  seeing 
him,  grinned  all  over  his  freckled  face.  "Aw,  I  need  n't 
have  called  out  your  name  if  I  'd  known  it  was  you  —  I 


294  CAVIARE 

would  n't  forget  your  glass  eye."  A  monocle  has  its  com- 
pensations even  in  America,  Charles  thought.  The  little 
slip  of  paper  handed  him  showed  that  he  was  wanted  at 
the  telephone. 

"This  is  Mr.  Capper  speaking.  Mr.  Caerleon,  I've 
rung  you  up  so  early  because  Mr.  Marsh  has  been  talk- 
ing to  me.  He  tells  me  that  — " 

Charles  never  thought  so  quickly  in  all  his  life.  Every- 
thing of  importance  in  connection  with  Mr.  Capper 
passed  through  his  mind:  how  he'd  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  buying  Michigan  and  Illinois,  and  how  again 
and  again  he  'd  tried  to  get  him  to  sell  out  —  while  the 
stock  was  going  down  and  as  soon  as  it  had  started  to  go 
up.  He  felt  certain  that  Mr.  Capper  was  on  the  point  of 
suggesting  some  course  of  action  to  him,  and  he  felt 
equally  certain  that  if  he  tried  to  decide  it  now  he'd 
decide  it  to  his  own  disadvantage.  And  he  knew  it 
would  be  no  use  to  argue.  No  sooner  had  he  learned 
who  had  called  him  than  his  brain  began  to  work,  and  he 
was  in  time  to  stop  the  broker  before  he  could  hear 
what  the  no  doubt  capable  Marsh  had  to  say. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Capper,  I'm  not  ready  for  business 
yet.  I'm  only  just  up.  We'll  talk  at  a  quarter  to  ten. 
I  '11  be  at  your  office  then.  The  Exchange  does  n't  open 
till  ten,  does  it?  Good-hyeV  and  before  Mr.  Capper's 
expostulations  could  take  shape  he'd  hung  up  the 
receiver. 

"If  anyone  wants  Mr.  Caerleon  on  the  telephone,"  he 
told  the  neat  shirtwaist  at  the  telephone  desk,  "please 
say  he  's  not  to  be  found." 

But  this  was  all  very  well.  He'd  have  to  go  back  to 


AN    INVITATION   TO   DINNER  295 

his  breakfast  and  his  paper.  Presumably  Mr.  Capper 
had  n't  had  to  sell  out  his  stock  the  previous  day,  or  else 
he'd  not  have  any  reason  to  tell  him  Mr.  Marsh's  views 
of  this  morning.  He  was  still  in  the  soup,  apparently. 
He  went  back,  gripped  his  teeth,  took  up  the  paper,  and 
turned  to  the  stock  market  news. 

"Who's  buying  Michigan  and  Illinois?"  a  headline 
asked;  and  then  on  another  column,  "Stock  market 
stagnant,  but  M.  and  I.  like  a  balloon.  Bears  seeking 
cover." 

But  what  was  the  actual  price  when  the  Exchange 
closed?  Charles  had  enough  sense  to  look  for  that. 

621,500  ^'lichigan  &I  .  .  .  .  m  28|  62R31i. 

It  took  Charles  quite  a  time  to  dig  out  the  import  of 
the  line,  but  after  a  time  he  realised  what  it  meant  to 
him.  The  first  figures  showed  the  amount  of  stock  dealt 
in,  the  second  the  highest  price  during  the  day,  the  third 
the  lowest,  the  fourth  the  closing  price,  and  the  fifth  the 
rise  since  the  previous  day.  It  was  evident,  therefore, 
that  he  'd  been  lucky  enough  to  begin  his  buying  at  the 
lowest  —  or  almost  at  the  lowest :  at  twenty-nine  and 
five-eighths  and  at  twenty-nine.  And  when  the  Ex- 
change closed  the  price  was  sixty-two  and  a  half! 

Charles  sat  before  the  remains  of  his  breakfast  for 
several  minutes.  His  mind  was  a  blank  —  or  it  was  a 
blank  in  that  he  was  aware  of  no  coherent  thoughts. 
He  'd  laid  the  paper  down  and  had  tried  for  a  moment  to 
reckon  out  in  his  head  what  he'd  made,  but  his  brain 
refused   to   function.    He  tried  with  a  pencil  on  the 


296  CAVIARE 

table-cloth;  the  result  was  the  same.  It  was  then  that 
he'd  lapsed  into  blankness.  .  .  . 

Everything  came  back  with  a  flash.  He  sat  upright, 
folded  the  paper,  and  called  for  his  check  —  we  should 
call  it  a  "  bill "  in  England.  Giving  the  waiter  a  tip  of  ten 
cents,  and  wondering  whether  it  was  enough,  he  went  to 
a  chair  in  the  barber's  shop.  You  ought  to  get  a  lot  of 
attention  for  tenpence,  he  said  to  himself  —  and  he  cer- 
tainly got  it.  We  are  only  beginning  to  know  what  shav- 
ing is  in  Europe. 

During  this  time  he  managed  to  avoid  any  detailed 
calculation  of  his  position.  His  mind  was  clear  enough 
now,  but  he  did  n  't  want  to  mix  things  up ;  he  did  n't 
want  to  make  a  mistake.  But  back  in  his  room  — it  was 
still  short  of  nine  o'clock  —  he  sat  down  at  his  writing- 
table  and  started  figuring. 

Mr.  Capper  had  told  him  at  a  very  much  earlier  stage 
of  the  game,  and  when  his  holding  was  only  ninety-five 
thousand  shares,  that  with  every  dollar  advance  he 
made  nearly  twenty  thousand  pounds.  That  was  when 
the  stock  stood  at  forty-two.  It  was  over  sixty-one  now. 
He  supposed  it  possible  that  they  had  n't  been  able  to 
buy  him  any  more  —  not  because  he  thought  that  likely, 
but  because  he  wanted  to  discount  his  good  fortune. 
Even  so,  nineteen  times  twenty  thousand  was  three 
hundred  and  eighty  thousand  pounds.  And  Mr.  Capper 
had  estimated  he'd  made  about  thirty  thousand  before 
that  last  calculation  came  into  operation.  Good  Heav- 
ens! He'd  made  four  hundred  thousand  pounds  at  the 
very  least  —  and  much  more,  very  likely.  He  was  a 
millionaire  —  in  dollars  —  more  than  once! 


AN   INVITATION   TO   DINNER  297 

But  was  he?  Anything  might  have  happened  over- 
night. Charles  was  pretty  innocent  of  stock  markets, 
but  he  did  know  that  London  business  often  ruled  the 
prices  (by  grace  of  New  York,  of  course!).  While  he'd 
slept,  London  had  been  buying  or  selling.  And  oh !  what 
was  it  Mr.  Marsh  had  said?  Why  had  n't  he  listened? 
When  directly  the  Exchange  opened,  perhaps  Michigan 
and  Illinois  would  be  several  points  lower;  perhaps  the 
whole  thing  was  a  temporary  rally,  a  spurt.  Feverishly 
he  searched  for  support  for  this  view  in  his  paper.  Mr. 
Shotwell  did  n't  believe  the  advance  was  exhausted.  All 
the  indications  were  the  other  way,  in  fact. 

Charles  hurried  on  his  overcoat,  and  started  for  Wall 
Street.  But  he  was  not  to  go  farther  than  the  head  of  the 
elevator  shaft  without  interruption.  Just  as  he  was 
pressing  the  bell  a  letter  was  shot  pneumatically  into 
the  hands  of  the  floor-clerk  —  "Oh,  Mr.  Caerleon,  here's 
something  for  you." 

It  was  a  note  from  Mr.  Davison :  — 

My  dear  Mr.  Caerleon,  —  You  were  to  come  and 
dine  with  us  one  night.  Mrs.  Davison  suggests  this 
evening.  It  will  give  us  great  pleasure  if  you  will.  The 
hour  is  eight  o'clock.  If  this  note  finds  you  in  the  hotel, 
perhaps  you  can  let  me  have  a  reply  by  the  bearer. 
Yours  very  truly, 

Hepburn  Z.  Davison. 

"That's  odd,"  Charles  thought.  "Mr.  Davison  didn't 
like  me.  What's  he  in  such  a  hurry  to  ask  me  to  dinner 
for?"   Charles  did  n't  know  it,  but  as  a  matter  of  fact 


298  CAVIARE 

the  reason  was  very  simple.  Mr.  Davison  had  met  Mr. 
Capper  overnight,  and  Mr.  Capper  had  n't  confined 
himself  to  thanking  his  friend  for  the  introduction  of  a 
new  client :  bubbling  over  with  excitement  at  the  events 
of  the  day,  he  had  been  indiscreet  enough  to  tell  him, 
in  confidence,  about  Charles's  extraordinary  methods 
and  commissions,  and  of  his  success.  It  occurred  at  once 
to  Mr.  Davison  that  the  man  who  was  at  least  half  re- 
sponsible for  the  flurry  on  'Change,  and  who  seemed  to 
be  on  the  way  to  making,  at  least  temporarily,  a  fortune, 
even  though  by  a  compound  of  sheer  good  luck  and  ig- 
norance, was  worth  cultivating.  Besides,  as  Mrs.  Davi- 
son remarked,  he  was  a  brother  of  Lord  Bude's. 

Anyhow,  Charles  accepted.  There  was  n't  any  reason 
why  he  should  n't.  He  had  n't  disliked  Mr.  Davison,  and 
it  was  certain  that  when  the  evening  came  he  would  be 
searching  about  for  some  means  of  killing  time. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  RECEIVES  A  CABLE  AND 
CELEBRATES  A  FICTITIOUS  BIRTHDAY  BY  TAKING  MR. 
CAPPER  TO  THE  WALDORF 

CHARLES  arrived  very  punctually  at  Mr.  Cap- 
per's office.  He  found  that  gentleman  by  no 
means  as  cool  and  collected  as  he  had  been  at  the 
moment  of  their  first  interview.  It  really  was  a  fact  that 
his  firm  did  n't  care  very  much  for  the  more  speculative 
kind  of  business.  They  preferred,  encouraged,  and  knew 
more  about  investment  accounts.  Mr.  Capper  therefore 
found  himself  in  a  sea  of  whose  navigation,  while  not 
ignorant,  he  was  timorous.  He  greeted  Charles  with  a 
sort  of  veiled  resentment.  He  'd  not  been  insensible  of, 
indeed  he'd  admired,  the  Englishman's  courage  and 
nerve,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  it  was  more  good  luck 
than  courage,  or  nerve,  or  skill  that  had  put  him  so  much 
on  the  right  side  of  the  market.  His  client  certainly 
was  n't  acting  in  conjunction  with  the  interests  who  'd 
started  bulling  M.  and  I.  He  doubted  even  if  he  were 
being  used  as  a  cat's  paw.  He  was  obviously  as  innocent 
as  he  could  be  —  a  tenderfoot.  He  did  n't  even  know 
who  the  other  bulls  were.  No,  Mr.  Capper  had  made  a 
pretty  shrewd  guess.  He  was  sure  that  Charles  was 
simply  acting  blindly  on  a  tip.  It  might  have  reached 
him  by  chance,  or  through  some  breach  of  confidence  — 
but  whatever  the  means,  he  'd  had  the  nerve  to  go  nap  on 


300  CAVIARE 

it.  He  was  a  sport,  anyway.  And  he'd  got  Capper, 
Zanthro  and  Company  into  the  business,  and  there  the 
senior  partner  supposed  they'd  have  to  stop  until  he 
could  either  induce  him  to  close  his  trade,  or  until  mat- 
ters were  settled  automatically  by  the  sudden  dropping 
of  prices.  Such  things  had  happened.  It  did  n't  look  as 
if  they  were  going  to  happen  here,  though.  And  then 
again,  even  if  Charles  did  decide  to  take  his  profit  and  to 
clear  out,  what  a  job  it'd  be  selling  such  a  deuce  of  a 
block  without  breaking  the  market.  Two  hundred  and 
ninety -five  thousand  would  want  some  selling.  Unless 
the  men  who  had  been  buying  so  eagerly  yesterday 
were  going  on  picking  up  everything  that  was  offered,  he 
did  n't  see  how  it  was  to  be  done.  .  .  . 

"Good  morning  again,  Mr.  Caerleon.  You  seemed  in 
a  hurry  this  morning.  I  hope  I  did  n't  spoil  yoiir  break- 
fast. But  I  did  think  I  ought  to  have  your  views  about 
this  stock  of  yours." 

"To  tell  the  truth,  I  had  n't  got  any  views,  Mr.  Cap- 
per. I  had  n't  looked  at  the  paper  when  you  telephoned. 
I'd  only  just  come  down  to  breakfast;  and  I  feared  that 
if  I  talked  then,  my  ignorance  of  what  had  happened 
would  likely  drive  me  into  some  stupid  decision." 

"  You  did  n't  know  what  happened  overnight !  I  don 't 
understand." 

"I  mean  I  knew  no  more  of  what  had  happened  to 
Michigan  and  Illinois  than  when  I  left  you  here  after 
lunch." 

"Good  Lord!  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  went 
away  with,  so  to  speak,  a  hundred  thousand  shares  in 
your  pocket,  all  bought  on  margin  with  your  day's 


CHARLES   RECEIVES   A   CABLE  301 

profits,  and  did  n't  even  take  the  trouble  to  find  out  how 
things  had  gone  when  the  Exchange  closed?" 

"Yes,  I  do.  Stupid,  is  n't  it?  But  let's  make  up  for 
lost  time  now.  Have  you  bought  me  all  the  shares  I 
wanted?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Marsh  bought  the  last  lot  offered  last  night. 
Mr.  Murphy  is  figuring  out  the  account  now.  It 's  pretty 
complicated.  We  had  to  buy  your  shares  in  all  sorts  of 
lots,  just  as  we  could.  However,  I  daresay  you  '11  be  able 
to  make  it  out." 

"What  were  you  going  to  tell  me  this  morning  when 
I  so  impatiently  finished  the  conversation?" 

Mr.  Capper  smiled  a  little  sourly.  "  I  was  going  to  tell 
you  that  as  the  market  was  still  —  as  far  as  M.  and  I. 
goes,  I  mean  —  so  very  bullish,  I  thought  it  would  be  a 
good  time  for  you  to  start  selling.  It  was  clear  from 
what  Marsh  said  he  'd  be  able  to  get  rid  of  quite  a  lot  of 
your  shares  right  away,  and  it  might  prove  to  be  a  good 
thing  to  have  done.  One  never  knows  which  way  the  cat 
will  jump." 

"Yes,  but  what's  the  feeling?  And  what  about 
London  ?  On  the  face  of  it,  is  the  stock  better  now  than 
it  was  last  night?" 

"Oh,  yes,  a  lot:  there  was  a  great  deal  of  buying  in 
London,  and  there  are,  I  know,  a  lot  of  European  and 
Western  orders  this  morning.  Certainly  it's  gone  up. 
But  we  can't  be  sure  if  it'll  last  till  the  Exchange  opens. 
And  when  it  does,  shall  we  sell  a  little  of  your  holding  as 
a  start?" 

"No,  not  to  begin  with,  anyhow.  You  say  I've  got 
the  whole  two  hundred  and  ninety-five  thousand.    I  '11 


302  CAVIARE 

just  look  at  your  pictures  here  if  you'l!  let  me,  until 
the  prices  begin  to  come  through  —  and  then  we  '11 
see." 

Mr.  Capper  subsided.  "Very  well;  do  as  you  please, 
but  there  is  such  a  thing  as  overstaying  your  market, 
Mr.  Caerleon.  Don't  forget  that." 

So  Charles  devoted  his  attention  —  or  pretended  to  — 
to  the  study  of  the  indifferent  coverings  of  Mr.  Capper's 
walls,  and  Mr.  Capper  read  letters,  and  made  little  notes 
on  their  corners,  and  was  very  restless  and  unhappy. 
He'd  already  given  Mr.  Murphy  instructions  to  bring 
him  the  first  Michigan  and  Illinois  price  that  came  up  on 
the  tape,  and  he  knew  that  he  'd  get  a  telephone  report 
from  the  floor  of  the  Exchange  directly  things  began  to 
shape  themselves  there. 

The  three  or  four  minutes  before  Mr.  Murphy  ap- 
peared seemed  to  Charles  an  eternity.  He  looked  at  all 
the  pictures  on  one  wall,  and  then  began  looking  at  them 
all  again,  as  if  they  were  too  good  to  pass  over  rapidly. 
He  was  n't  thinking  of  impressing  Mr.  Capper.  He  was 
thinking  of  passing  the  time.  Even  the  simulation  of 
interest  did  that.  He  'd  examine  a  picture  and  then  walk 
back  and  look  at  it  critically  in  the  large;  then  he  'd  start 
examining  it  in  detail  as  if  with  a  magnifying  glass  —  but 
he  could  n't  even  have  told  what  it  pretended  to  be.  .  ,  . 

The  door  opened. 

"M.  and  I.  has  opened  at  sixty-five." 

Mr.  Capper  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  stretched 
himself.  Charles  took  out  his  eyeglass  and  began  to 
polish  it  with  his  handkerchief.  The  movements  of  both 
men  were  dictated  by  their  nerves. 


CHARLES  RECEIVES  A  CABLE      303 

"What  does  that  mean  to  me,  Mr.  Capper  —  approx- 
imately, of  course?" 

"It  means,  my  dear  sir,  that  you're  making  a  great 
deal  of  money  as  fast  as  ever  you  can  make  it.  The  last 
block  of  shares  that  Marsh  bought  for  you  last  night 
was  at  sixty-two  and  a  half.  If  you  assume  that  all 
you  've  bought  cost  that  figure  —  and  of  course  we  know 
that  they've  cost  you  all  sorts  of  prices,  from  twenty- 
nine  and  a  half  up  —  then  you've  made  —  oh!  I  don't 
know  what  you  've  made.  But  with  a  jump  of  three  and  a 
half  since  last  night,  you  've  obviously  made  —  since 
then,  and  on  paper,  you  understand,  for  Heaven  only 
knows  what '11  happen  when  you  start  selling  all  your 
shares !  —  over  a  million  dollars  —  about  a  couple  of 
hundred  thousand  pounds." 

Charles  had  to  light  a  cigarette.  He  realised  that  Mr. 
Capper  did  n  't  like  his  smoking,  but  he  could  n't  help 
that.  It  was  a  relief  to  his  nerves.  He 'd  added  the  two 
hundred  thousand  pounds  to  the  sum  he  'd  arrived  at  in 
his  bedroom  that  morning. 

"It  really  looks  as  if  there  is  n't  going  to  be  a  break 
just  now,  anyhow;  does  n't  it,  Mr.  Capper?" 

"Yes,  it  does."   Mr.  Capper  was  laconic. 

"Well,  you  say  that  Mr.  Murphy  is  making  up  my 
account  —  a  list  of  my  purchases,  I  suppose.  It  '11  be 
ready  in  an  hour  or  so,  I  hope.  I  don't  think  it's  good 
for  my  nerves  to  stop  here,  and,  anyhow,  I  'm  interrupt- 
ing business  — " 

"  Not  at  all ;  stop  here  as  long  as  you  like,"  Mr.  Capper 
broke  in.  "I'd  very  much  rather  you  were  here,  as  a 
matter  of  fact." 


304  CAVIARE 

"No,  I  guess  I'd  better  go  and  look  at  something. 
You  see,  if  I  stopped  I  might  be  tempted  to  buy  some 
more  —  and  I  don't  believe  you'd  approve  of  that.  I'll 
go  along  now,  and  I'll  be  back  before  twelve,  and  then 
we  '11  really  decide  —  if  you  '11  be  good  enough  to  help 
me  —  what  I  'd  better  do," 

It  was  certainly  better  to  go  out  and  to  look  at  New 
York  than  to  stop  in  Mr.  Capper's  rather  stuffy  room 
and  to  continue  the  nerve-racking  business  of  waiting 
Mr.  Murphy's  announcements.  Charles  felt  that  a  whole 
morning  of  that  kind  of  excitement  would  finish  him 
entirely.  It  was  not  only  that  he  felt  the  excitement,  but 
there  was  also  the  necessity  of  hiding  that  he  felt  it.  To 
make  dollars  at  each  tick  of  the  clock  was  all  very  well  in 
theory,  but  when  it  was  complicated  by  the  additional 
fact  that  at  any  moment  the  skein  of  money"  that  was 
being  wound  so  quickly  might  begin  to  unwind  with 
even  greater  velocity,  it  became  altogether  too  wearing. 
All  the  same,  to  spend  a  couple  of  hours  looking  at  a 
place  in  which  for  the  moment  you  take  no  interest, 
having  a  great,  an  absorbing,  interest  elsewhere,  is  not 
easy.  So  Charles  found.  And  it  was  n't  till  the  first  hour 
was  over  that  it  occurred  to  him  that  it  was  at  least 
possible  that  there  might  be  a  cable  from  Paris  at  his 
hotel.  He  had  looked  for  one  in  the  morning  both 
before  breakfast  and  before  coming  out,  and,  not  finding 
it,  had  come  unhappily  to  the  conclusion  that  the  only 
news  he  was  likely  to  get  would  arrive  by  post.  Some 
day  —  next  week,  perhaps.  However,  he'd  go  now  and 
see. 
.There  was  a  cable.    It  could  only  be  from  Alison  or 


CHARLES    RECEIVES   A  CABLE  305 

her  father.  No  one  else  knew  his  address.  So  he  reflected 
as  he  tore  it  open.   It  was  not  short,  anyhow. 

"Father  with  me  again  very  ill  he  wishes  very  much 
to  see  you  it  is  asking  great  deal  but  if  you  are  not  settled 
should  be  infinitely  grateful  if  you  could  come  tell  no  one 
of  illness.   A." 

Charles  had  read  the  cable  as  he  walked  to  his  room. 
It  took  him  no  moment  to  make  up  his  mind  and  to  plan 
his  course  of  action.  He  summoned  a  valet  by  telephone. 
"Pack  all  my  things,  please;  perhaps  I  shall  be  leaving 
to-night."  Then,  hurrying  to  the  hall,  he  examined  the 
board  which  announces  the  departures  of  the  European 
boats.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  on  a  Thursday;  a  French 
boat  had  gone  early  that  morning,  and  there  was  nothing 
else  till  Saturday  —  a  slow  English  and  a  fast  German 
boat:  both  would  leave  at  midday.  Satisfying  himself 
that  there  was  no  supplement  to  this  information,  he 
countermanded  the  packing  and  hurried  downtown  to 
the  office  of  the  German  line.  Yes,  their  boat  went 
Saturday.  Under  normal  conditions  it  would  land  him  in 
Paris  very  late  on  Friday.  And  he  could  be  given  a  single 
room.  Not  that  the  quality  of  accommodation  mattered. 
Charles  would  have  gone  steerage  or  as  a  stoker  rather 
than  be  left  behind.  He  tried  to  express  this  zeal  in 
answering  Allison's  request  in  the  cable  he  now  sent,  but 
it  was  n't  possible  to  say  very  much  without  saying  too 
much. 

"Cable  received  after  to-day's  boat  had  gone  shall 
come  by  next  Prinzessin  Mathilde  Saturday  arrive  Paris 


3o6  CAVIARE 

about  midnight  to-morrow  week  will  telegraph  hour 
from  Cherbourg.   Charles  Caerleon." 

Concern  for  Mr.  Gorham's  health  was  swallowed  up  in 
Charles's  mind  with  delight  that  he  was  to  see  Alison  in 
a  little  over  seven  days,  and  in  satisfaction  at  all  the 
implications  of  her  father's  wish  for  his  presence. 

Charles  remembered  now  his  business  duties.  For  the 
last  hour  he  'd  entirely  forgotten  Michigan  and  Illinois, 
Mr.  Capper,  and  all  the  problems  connected  with  his 
newly  acquired  interests.  They  'd  be  more  diflScult  than 
ever  now  that  in  forty-eight  hours  he'd  be  showing  his 
heels  to  New  York.  He  wondered  whether  he  could 
extricate  himself  in  that  space  of  time  from  the  complica- 
tions which  Mr.  Capper  had  foreshadowed.  He'd  require 
all  the  broker's  good  nature,  and  unhappily"  he  found 
that  he'd  begun  this  last  stage  by  irritating  him  by 
arriving  not  "before  twelve"  as  he'd  promised,  but 
several  minutes  after.  Michigan  and  Illinois  was  still 
soaring,  but  Mr.  Capper  was  peevish.  The  attention 
that  he  'd  had  to  give  to  Charles's  commissions  was  tak- 
ing him  away  from  his  other  interests.  He  ought,  he  re- 
membered, to  have  cabled  to  London  yesterday  about  a 
Turner  which  one  of  his  correspondents  had  just  un- 
earthed. Very  likely  now  it  would  be  too  late.  So  he 
answered  Charles's  greeting  and  his  inquiry  as  to  how 
things  stood  with  an  unhappy  blankness  of  expression :  — 
"Your  stock  's  still  going  up,  Mr.  Caerleon." 
"Hurrah!"  Charles  answered:  he  felt  a  little  like  a 
schoolboy;  "let's  get  to  business,  then.  Send  out  and  sell 
the  odd  forty -five  thousand  as  quick  as  ever  you  can,  and 


CHARLES   RECEIVES  A  CABLE  307 

after  that 's  done  we  '11  talk.  It  '11  be  easier  when  we  've 
only  got  the  round  figure  to  bother  about,  won't  it?" 

Mr.  Murphy  appeared  and  w^as  told  of  Charles's 
wishes.  "The  sale  of  a  big  block  like  that 's  sure  to  affect 
the  market,"  was  his  comment;  "however,  we'll  let  'em 
go  in  lots." 

"Your  beautiful  clock  there,  Mr.  Capper  —  a  museum 
piece,  surely  —  says  it 's  twenty -five  to  one.  It 's  time 
for  lunch.  I  wish  you'd  do  something  for  me.  It's  my 
birthday  to-day.  I've  just  remembered.  You're  about 
the  only  man  I  know  in  New  York.  Come  and  have  lunch 
with  me.  It  '11  celebrate  my  coming  of  age  and  also  the 
way  in  which  your  Michigan  and  Illinois  has  responded 
to  an  appeal  from  the  old  country.  Now,  now,  please 
don't  say  *  no.'  I  '11  tell  you  a  secret.  It 's  about  the  only 
chance  you  '11  have.  I  'm  going  the  day  after  to-morrow 
—  no,  not  West,  but  back  to  Europe.  You  see,  I  only 
came  over  to  buy  Michigan  and  Illinois  and  to  see  your 
skyscrapers  —  and  to  avoid  coming-of-age  celebrations 
in  England.  I  've  heard  lots  about  your  Waldorf  Hotel. 
Let 's  get  a  taxi  and  go  up  there.  We  can  be  back  in  an 
hour  and  a  half.  And  when  we  get  back  we  can  sell  all 
my  other  stock  if  the  market  has  n't  gone  to  blazes. 
Anyhow,  we 'II  have  to  sell;  I  want  to  take  the  swag  away 
on  Saturday." 

Mr.  Capper  gasped,  and  would  have  protested,  but 
Charles,  who  incidentally,  I  should  mention,  had  not 
drunk  a  cocktail  or  anything  else  of  an  alcoholic  nature 
since  dinner  on  the  previous  evening,  anticipated  his 
movements  by  handing  him  his  hat  and  overcoat.  "  I  've 
only  got  forty-seven  hours,"  he  added;  "I  can't  spend 


3o8  CAVIARE 

a  couple  of  them  better  than  in  finding  out  what  terra- 
pin's  like." 

"Oh,  if  it's  terrapin  you  want,"  Mr.  Capper  said, 
"we  'd  better  telephone  to  them  to  have  it  ready";  and 
as  he  was  n't  going  to  let  his  office  know  of  his  sudden 
midday  excursion  into  the  extra-business  world,  he  rang 
up  at  once,  ordered  a  table  in  half  an  hour  for  Mr.  Os- 
good Capper,  and  said  that  the  terrapin  was  to  be  pre- 
pared in  some  special  manner  which  Charles  did  n't 
catch. 

"I  'm  so  glad  you  can  come,"  Charles  said.  "I've  re- 
membered my  birthday  just  in  time;  the  terrapin  '11  be 
on  the  table  at  about  the  exact  minute,  allowing  for  dif- 
ference of  time,  that  my  old  nurse  told  me  I  made  my 
first  appearance  in  the  world.  So  it'll  be  a  regular  bean- 
feast." 

As  mad  as  a  hatter,  Mr.  Capper  thought.  But  the 
fact  that  Charles,  in  spite  of  a  certain  assuredness  of 
manner  and  maturity  of  expression,  was  only  just  twen- 
ty-one, explained  a  great  deal.  It  was  a  good  thing  that 
he  had  n't  started  their  acquaintance  by  telling  the 
broker  he  was  under  age.  If  he  had,  Mr.  Capper  would 
certainly  have  refused  to  deal  for  him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

BEGINS    WITH    A    RETURN    TO    WALL    STREET,    AND    ENDS 
IN   THE    DAVISON    HOUSEHOLD 

ACOMING-OF-AGE  birthday  has  to  be  cele- 
brated with  all  kinds  of  rites.  Both  Mr.  Cap- 
per and  Charles  were  the  better  for  their 
lunch,  and  very  much  more  cheerful  when  they  got  back 
to  Wall  Street.  Mr.  Murphy  had  a  very  good  report  to 
give.  The  sale  of  the  forty-three  thousand  had  n't  had 
any  evil  effect.  They  'd  been  snapped  up  quickly  enough 
by  brokers  who  looked  as  if  they  'd  be  glad  of  more.  No, 
of  course  they'd  employed  another  firm  to  do  the  sell- 
ing. After  buying  so  much  yesterday  it  would  n't  do  for 
them  to  be  the  first  to  start  on  the  other  tack.  The  price 
was  still  going  up  —  more  slowly,  naturally. 

Charles  had  refused  to  talk  business  over  lunch. 
They'd  talked  American  politics  and  the  state  of  the 
picture  market,  and  he'd  told  Mr.  Capper  why  he 
thought  he  ought  now  to  go  to  London  and  to  buy  Steers 
and  Sickcrts,  Rothensteins,  Johns  and  Epsteins,  rather 
than  continue  in  his  present  path.  Mr.  Capper  had 
been  brought  to  agreement  and  had  promised  to  come 
and  stoj)  with  Charles  in  the  spring,  and  to  study  under 
his  direction  these  new  movements  with  which  at  pres- 
ent he  was  n't  entirely  in  sympathy.  The  phrases  are 
his.  But  now,  with  Mr.  Murphy  waiting  for  further  in- 


310  CAVIARE 

structions,  It  was  n't  any  longer  possible  to  evade  the 
necessity  of  planning  out  a  campaign. 

"Supposing  you  tell  Mr,  Murphy  to  sell  another 
thirty  thousand  as  discreetly  as  he  can,  but  as  quickly, 
and  then  to  come  back  and  report,"  Charles  suggested. 
"We'll  have  settled  things  by  then,  I  expect." 

Mr.  Capper  agreed,  and  Mr.  Murphy  went  off. 

Charles  could  n't  quite  see  what  there  was  to  talk 
about.  He  explained  to  Mr.  Capper  he'd  just  got  to  go 
Saturday,  and  that  he  'd  like  to  have  all  his  stock  sold 
in  time  for  him  to  take  back  with  him  a  cheque  for  his 
profit.  Was  that  possible?  Mr.  Capper  said  it  was 
possible  enough,  but  that  it  would  want  a  lot  of  doing. 
The  influence  of  1904  Pol  Roger  had  helped  to  alter  his 
views.  He  was  really  rather  sorry  now  that  his  client 
was  selling  out.  He'd  like  to  have  seen  him  s-top  in  the 
market  until  he'd  made  a  sum  which  would  cause  his 
present  generous  winnings  to  seem  a  mere  modest  pit- 
tance. It  was  possible.  Some  one  was  trying  to  get  con- 
trol of  Michigan  and  Illinois,  and  the  stock  might  go 
to  anything.  There  might  be  a  repetition  of  the  North- 
ern Securities  scramble.  Besides,  he  was  beginning  to 
like  Charles.  He  was  sorry  he  was  going  back  so  soon. 
Still,  he  would  no  doubt  be  as  stubborn  in  his  determin- 
ation to  sell  as  he  had  been  in  his  orders  to  buy.  It  was 
only  a  question  of  how  much  stock  the  market  could 
absorb  without  the  price  going  down.  They  talked 
round  and  round  the  subject. 

There  was  n't  much  immediate  fear  about  the  mar- 
ket, apparently.  Mr.  Murphy  came  back  earlier  than 
was  expected  to  say  that  the  thirty  thousand  were  gone. 


ENDS   IN  THE   DAVISON   HOUSEHOLD       311 

and  that  although  naturally  the  rise  was  much  less 
rapid,  it  was  still  continuing.  He  did  n't  see  why  they 
should  n't  sell  another  fifty  thousand  before  the  Ex- 
change closed. 

"  You  '11  have  to  do  better  than  that.  Get  some  more 
help.  You  've  got  to  try  to  get  rid  of  another  hundred 
thousand." 

But  Mr.  Murphy  was  gone.  And  it'll  save  time  if  I 
say  at  once  that  when  the  Exchange  closed  that  even- 
ing Charles  had  only  a  hundred  and  twenty  thousand 
left  of  his  holding,  and  it  was  understood  that  the  ener- 
getic Mr.  Marsh  was  to  get  rid  of  as  many  of  these  as 
possible  directly  the  Exchange  opened  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

Mr.  Capper's  last  words  to  Charles  were  that  he  hoped 
with  luck  to  have  cleaned  up  the  whole  transaction 
before  midday  to-morrow  —  and  if  that  was  n't  pos- 
sible, at  least  by  two  o'clock.  "I'll  have  my  car  down 
here  then,  anyhow,  and  if  things  have  gone  as  I  hope 
they  will,  I  '11  take  you  for  a  couple  of  hours'  joy  ride. 
There  are  a  lot  of  things  that  you  ought  to  see  before 
you  leave  New  York.  I'll  show  you  Central  Park  and 
General  Grant's  tomb  anyway." 

Charles  left  Wall  Street  without  any  idea  of  his  posi- 
tion, even  his  approximate  position,  with  regard  to  the 
stock  he'd  bought  or  sold.  lie  did  know  that  if  the 
rest  of  his  stock,  the  last  hundred  and  twenty  thousand, 
was  sold  as  easily  as  what  had  gone  during  the  day,  he  'd 
come  out  an  enormous  winner;  but  he'd  long  ago  given 
up  the  attempt  to  calculate  transaction  by  transaction 
where  he  stood.   He  did  n't  as  a  matter  of  fact  know  at 


312  CAVIARE 

what  prices  most  of  his  stock  had  been  bought,  and  all 
he  knew  of  the  prices  at  which  it  had  since  been  sold  was 
that  Mr.  Capper  and  Mr.  Murphy  had  considered  them 
satisfactory,  and  that,  as  Michigan  and  Illinois  was  still 
going  up,  it  was  certain  that  he  could  n't  be  worse  off 
than  his  rapid  paper  calculations  of  the  morning  had 
indicated.  He  'd  be  able  to  go  back  to  Paris  with  the 
knowledge  that  Mr.  Gorham  could  no  longer  say  to  him 
that  he  had  n't  enough  even  to  keep  up  Alison's  cars. 
Why,  he  could  even  undertake  to  pay  those  dressmakers' 
bills  which  had  formed  part  of  the  dark  horizon  of  her 
father's  conversation. 

However,  the  size  of  the  fortune  he  was  making  did  n't 
affect  very  greatly  Charles's  thoughts.  They  were  in 
Paris,  or  on  the  steamer  that  was  to  take  him  there. 
Even  though  Mr.  Gorham  were  very  ill,  he'd  be  able  to 
hear  his  visitor's  decision  not  to  wait  another  day  with- 
out telling  Alison  all  he  was  carrying  in  his  heart. 
Charles  had  promised  to  wait  a  year,  but  surely  his  new 
fortune,  added  to  Mr.  Gorham 's  reverses,  made  reason 
enough  for  his  claiming  to  have  his  promise  handed  back 
to  him. 

It  was  exactly  eight  o'clock  when  Charles  arrived  at 
Mr.  Davison's  house  in  Seventy-ninth  Street.  He  found 
himself  the  first. 

"Dinner's  at  quarter-past  eight,"  his  host  said,  "but 
I  asked  you  to  come  early  that  we  might  have  a  few 
minutes  to  talk.  I  have  n't  been  idle  in  your  affair:  I  've 
been  inquiring  about  work  for  you,  and  I  think  I  can 
get  you  a  start.    However,  I  won't  say  anything  more 


ENDS   IN   THE   DAVISON   HOUSEHOLD       313 

about  that  for  a  day  or  two,  when  I  shall  know  for 
certain." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Charles  ought,  of  course,  to 
have  disclosed  the  fact  that  he  would  be  gone  in  less  than 
two  days.  He  did  n't  refrain  from  any  design.  He'd 
seize  a  later  opportunity  of  telling  his  host. 

Mr.  Davison,  like  so  many  business  men  in  America 
and  in  England,  was  a  very  different  person  in  his  office, 
where  his  attitude  was  that  of  a  man  whom  everyone 
would  if  possible  take  advantage  of,  and  in  his  house, 
where  he  could  dispense  lordly  hospitality,  and  where, 
in  fact,  he  was  really  happy  if  his  guests  were  pleased 
and  amused.  He  was  telling  Charles  about  his  fellow 
guests.  It  was  quite  a  large  party.  What  he  was  told 
did  n't  hold  Charles's  attention  very  much  until  he 
heard  a  familiar  name:  "And  then  there's  a  man  whom 
I  daresay  you've  heard  of  in  England.  He's  always  in 
the  papers.  And  he's  a  friend  of  Mr.  Gorham's,  too,  — 
Mr.  Pyle.  I  must  remember  to  tell  him  you  're  here  with 
a  letter  from  Gorham.  He's  got  a  very  ferocious  reputa- 
tion in  Wall  Street.  'Old  Man  Pyle,'  they  call  him,  but 
he's  young  enough  when  it  comes  to  work." 

At  this  point  Mrs.  Davison  appeared,  very  gentle,  very 
beautiful,  like  a  fine  piece  of  old  lace.  She  had  had  no 
children,  and  she  knew  more  about  Mr.  Davison's  busi- 
ness than  he  knew  himself.  She  did  everything  by  calcu- 
lation, but  her  greatest  success  was  that  nobody  sus- 
pected it  except  her  husband.  She  made  Charles  at 
home  at  once;  she  made  him  feel  that  she  was  sincerely 
glad  to  entertain  him.  As  indeed  she  was.  She  told  him 
whom  he  was  to  take  in  to  dinner  and  who  would  sit  on 


314  CAVIARE 

his  other  side;  she  told  him  that  she'd  ordered  certain 
American  dishes  specially  for  him.  She  insisted  on  his 
drinking  a  cocktail  of  which  she  said  only  her  own  col- 
oured butler  had  the  recipe  —  and  then  she  left  him  to 
welcome  other  guests,  and  hardly  spoke  to  him  again  all 
the  evening. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"old  man  pyle" 

IT  was  Dostoievsky  who  remarked  that,  as  a  general 
rule,  people,  even  the  wicked,  are  much  more 
naive  and  simple-hearted  than  we  suppose.  And 
we  ourselves  are  so,  too,  he  goes  on  to  say.  It  is  the 
second  half  of  the  Russian's  thought  that  is  most  worth 
pondering,  but  it  was  of  the  first  that  Charles  was 
reminded  as  he  looked  at  "Old  Man  Pyle,"  who  had 
taken  a  seat  almost  opposite  to  him  at  the  table  before 
he  had  succeeded  in  identifying  him.  An  old  gentleman, 
slightly  prognathous,  clean-shaven,  soft-eyed,  white- 
haired,  with  exquisite  hands,  of  which  evidently  he  took 
such  care  that  they  looked  years  younger  than  his  face. 
Such  a  man  would  n't  be  a  church-warden  in  England. 
But  why  "Old  Man"  Pyle?  And  why  the  ferocious 
reputation.'  Charles  knew  he  did  ferocious  things.  Kid- 
napping was  n't  a  gentle  business.  But  he  did  n't  look 
ferocious. 

Mr.  Davison,  glancing  round  the  table,  saw  Charles's 
inspection  of  Mr.  Pyle.  "Oh,  Pyle,  I  want  you  to  know 
Mr.  Caerleon.  He  only  arrived  from  England  yester- 
day. He's  a  friend  of  Gorham's  —  in  fact,  I  owe  it  to 
Gorham  that  he's  here  —  so  you  ought  to  know  one 
another." 

The  old  man  laid  down  his  soup  spoon  and  looked 
benevolently  at  Charles.    "I  am  always  glad  to  meet 


3i6  CAVIARE 

any  friend  of  Mr.  Gorham's,"  he  said  with  a  pleasant 
smile.  Charles  looked  for,  but  could  n't  discern,  the 
slightest  sign  of  embarrassment.  Mr.  Pyle  continued: 
"And  I  hope  we  may  see  something  of  one  another. 
When  did  you  last  see  my  old  friend  Cyrus?  I  hope  he 
was  well." 

Charles  thought  he'd  test  the  old  gentleman's  com- 
placency. "Oh,  I  was  with  him  in  Paris  a  fortnight 
ago  —  he  was  very  well,  I  think,  when  I  saw  him 
last." 

"In  Paris!  I  knew  he  was  in  Europe.  I've  a  good 
mind  to  run  over  to  Europe  for  a  fortnight  myself. 
Cyrus  and  I  could  have  a  high  old  time  together";  and 
Mr.  Pyle  turned  to  the  lady  on  the  right.  He  had  n't 
moved  a  hair;  nor  his  mouth  nor  his  eyes  had  quivered. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  Mr.  Gorham  was  wrong,  and  "Old 
Man  Pyle  "  was  innocent  of  his  kidnapping.  It  had  only 
been  a  surmise.  But  no  doubt  he  did  n't  have  that  fero- 
cious reputation  for  nothing. 

From  both  of  his  neighbours  Charles  received  invita- 
tions before  they  rose  from  dinner  —  not  the  cold  and 
polite  invitations  that  one  gets  in  England,  but  invita- 
tions that  show  that  one's  hosts  are  prepared  to  take 
trouble.  First  they  found  out  what  he  was  interested  in 
and  then  they  undertook  to  show  it  to  him.  As  he 
had  n't  told  Mr.  Davison  that  he  was  leaving  for  Eu- 
rope, he  hesitated  to  excuse  himself  on  that  ground. 
But  he  had  to.  "I  shall  send  round  to  Mrs.  Havemeyer's 
house  to-morrow  morning  and  get  permission  for  you 
to  see  her  pictures,"  the  lady  he  had  taken  in  told  him. 
"If  our  Metropolitan  Museum  Manets  have    disap- 


"OLD   MAN   PYLE"  317 

pointed  you,  you  ought  to  see  those  she  has  as  quickly 
as  possible.  And  you'll  be  going  to  Boston,  of  course. 
I'll  see  that  Mrs.  Jack  Gardner  asks  you  to  see  her 
things." 

"Ah,  I  shall  have  to  come  back  to  New  York  to  avail 
myself  of  all  your  kindness  and  hospitality,"  Charles 
said,  "for  I'm  sailing  on  Saturday.  No,  I  had  n't  ex- 
pected to,  but  I  had  a  cable  to-day  that  makes  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  stop." 

"Then  I'm  afraid  you  won't  see  Boston  this  trip. 
But  there's  no  reason  why,  if  you  can  spare  the  time, 
you  should  n't  see  the  Havemeyer  collection  to-morrow. 
What  are  you  doing  at  lunch.''  Are  you  engaged.^"  She 
also  was  genuinely  interested  in  pictures,  and  she  was 
anxious  that  her  new  acquaintance  should  take  back 
with  him  some  knowledge  of  what  America  had  to 
show. 

Charles  explained  that  he  might  not  be  free,  that 
business  had  the  first  claim  on  his  time. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right:  we  American  women  are  used 
to  that.  I'll  expect  you  at  half -past  eleven  if  you  don't 
telephone.  We  can  see  the  pictures  before  lunch,  and 
you  can  get  away  before  two.  Henry  '11  come,  too,  won't 
you,  Henry?"  and  she  called  to  her  husband,  who  was 
doing  his  social  duty  further  down  the  table.  "Mr. 
Caerleon  is  coming  to  see  the  Havemeyer  pictures  with 
me  to-morrow.  You  '11  come  along,  won't  you?  "  Henry 
said  he  would. 

"  It 's  a  good  thing  for  him  to  leave  his  old  work  every 
now  and  then,"  the  lady  added. 

Charles's  other  neighbour,  as  she  could  n't  do  any- 


3i8  CAVIARE 

thing  towards  showing  him  America,  fell  back  on  an- 
other device  for  helping  the  stranger.  "If  you  must  go 
Saturday,  you  must,  I  suppose.     What  boat?" 

Charles  told  her. 

"  Prinzessin  Mathilde.  That 's  the  Bremen-New  York 
line,  is  n't  it.?  I  thought  so?  My  brother  's  one  of  the 
American  directors  of  it  —  or  something  of  the  kind.  I 
shall  write  and  tell  him  you're  sailing,  and  he'll  see 
you  're  made  comfortable.  Perhaps  they  '11  give  you  the 
bridal  suite!  Anyhow,  he'll  be  so  glad  if  he  can  be  of 
use.  And  you  must  come  and  see  us  when  you  come 
back." 

Charles  asked  her  if  she  knew  the  Gorhams. 

"Of  Philadelphia?  Oh,  yes  —  very  well.  Or  rather,  I 
know  Alison  Gorham  very  well :  her  father 's  like  all 
American  men,  too  busy  to  catch  more  than  a  glimpse 
of.  But  Alison 's  the  nicest  girl  I  know  —  and  one  of  the 
prettiest." 

Charles  was  happy  now.  Neither  Manet  nor  the  pros- 
pects of  his  having  a  good  voyage  could  drag  him  away 
from  the  subject  of  Miss  Gorham 's  qualities.  Poor 
young  man!  he  gave  himself  away  completely. 

When  the  women  had  left  the  table,  Mr.  Pyle  came 
round  and  sat  down  next  to  Charles.  He  wanted  to  know 
more  about  his  old  friend.  And  his  daughter?  How 
was  she?  He  is  either  a  consummate  old  fox,  Charles 
thought,  or  else  he  is  very  much  misjudged.  Obviously, 
if  Charles  had  been  with  Mr.  Gorham  in  Paris  a  fort- 
night ago,  he  must  almost  certainly  be  aware  of  his  dis- 
appearance; and  yet  Mr.  Pyle  was  ambling  happily 
along  with  his  conversation  as  if  nothing  of  the  kind  had 


"OLD   MAN   PYLE'  319 

ever  occurred  to  his  friend.  Charles  thought  he  'd  have 
another  shot  at  destroying  his  equanimity. 

"I  met  another  man  in  Paris  I  think  you  know  — 
Gilder  was  his  name." 

Mr.  Pyle  smUed.  "Oh,  Gilder  —  Tim  Gilder  ?  So 
he  's  in  Paris  too.  Yes,  I  know  him  well  —  too  well, 
I  think  sometimes.  He's  nobody's  enemy  —  I  need  n't 
finish  the  tag.  He 's  almost  in  my  office  —  of  it,  but  not 
in  it.  If  I  knew  you  better,  I'd  ask  —  but  it  would  n't 
be  fair.  I  hope  he's  enjoying  himself,  poor  fellow  .  .  .  ? " 

"You  can't  tell  if  a  man's  enjoying  himself,  but  he 
certainly  was  n't  being  dull  on  the  evening  I  saw  him  — 
I  can  answer  for  that." 

"Perhaps  tliat's  what 's  the  matter  with  Gilder.  He's 
too  busy.  He  can't  leave  things  alone.  He'd  do  business 
at  his  father's  funeral,  and  he  would  n't  be  in  Paris 
more  than  a  couple  of  hours  before  he'd  got  something 
humming." 

"So  I  should  suppose — "  Charles  was  interrupted 
by  his  host's  movement.  He  was  glad  enough  to  get 
away  from  Mr.  Pyle.  He  felt  he  was  unevenly  matched, 
handicapped.     His  antagonist  was  too  experienced. 

Later  in  the  evening  the  buccaneer  came  his  way 
again. 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  if  you're  going  to  be  in  New  York, 
come  and  see  me.  I  'm  a  bachelor,  but  I  can  show  you 
a  few  things.  Any  friend  of  Gorham's  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
I'd  like  you  to  come  and  spend  a  day  or  two  —  a  week- 
end, perhaps  —  in  my  country  place." 

Charles  excused  himself,  explaining  that  he'd  been 
called  back  to  Europe  by  the  illness  of  a  relation  — 


320  CAVIARE 

nearly  enough  true:  Mr.  Gorham  was  to  be  a  relation, 
surely.  And  as  he  looked  at  Mr.  Pyle  he  congratulated 
himself  that  no  one  was  likely  to  have  told  him  that,  in 
addition  to  having  been  mixed  up  in  the  futile  protection 
of  Mr.  Gorham  in  Paris,  he  'd  got  mixed  up  in  Michigan 
and  Illinois,  that  he  was  interfering  with  the  Pyle  plans. 
He  was  quite  sure  now  in  his  own  mind  that  the  old  gen- 
tleman had  dictated  the  Gorham  kidnapping.  He  'd  felt 
it  in  his  bones  ever  since  he'd  broached  the  name  of 
Gilder.  And  he  was  equally  sure  that,  if  it  were  known 
that  he  had  butted  into  the  Michigan  and  Illinois 
gamble,  he'd  be  made  to  suffer  for  it.  It  was  lucky  for 
Charles  that  Mr.  Capper's  indiscretion  had  gone  no 
further  than  Mr.  Davison,  who  had  told  his  old  friend 
that  the  Englishman  was  a  friend  of  Gorham's,  but  had 
kept  locked  up  in  his  own  breast  the  one  act  that  was 
really  answerable  for  his  presence  there  that  night. 
And  for  once  Mr.  Pyle's  aids  had  failed  him.  He  rather 
prided  himself  on  his  intelligence  system.  But  Charles's 
buying  of  Michigan  and  Illinois  had  synchronised  so 
exactly  with  that  of  the  brokers  who  were  buying  for 
the  Pyle  faction,  that,  kept  in  the  dark  as  they  always 
were,  they  had  leapt  to  the  conclusion  that  the  Capper 
men  were  playing  the  same  game  in  the  same  interests. 
The  amount  of  stock  that  had  been  bought  in  the  day 
ought  to  have  told  Mr.  Pyle;  but  for  once  he'd  been 
careless.  He  had  n't  compared  the  total  of  shares  dealt 
in  with  his  brokers'  returns.  With  Gorham  out  of  ac- 
tion, why  should  he  fear  any  opposition?  All  the  shares 
would  be  his.  It  was  only  a  question  of  how  long  it 
would  take  him  to  get  them  and  the  exact  price  he'd 


"OLD   MAN   PYLE"  321 

have  to  pay.  For  a  day  or  two  at  least  he  and  his 
associates  would  have  the  market  to  themselves.  And 
we  know  that  Charles  was  already  getting  out  of  it  —  so 
Mr.  Pyle  was  n't  so  very  wrong. 

Charles  walked  away  from  the  Davison  house,  mar- 
velling. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IN   WHICH   THE   AMIABLE   CHARLES   SEARCHES    FOR   THE 
LITTLE   BLUE   TURBAN 

CHARLES  woke,  turned  on  his  pillow,  said  to 
himself  that  to-morrow  would  be  Saturday  and 
that  he'd  be  on  the  sea,  and  telephoned  for  a 
paper  to  be  sent  up  to  his  room.  Michigan  and  Illinois 
was  still  the  feature,  and  it  was  still  going  ahead.  That 
he'd  made  a  fortune,  and  not  a  small  one,  was  no  longer 
in  question.  But  he'd  have  to  hustle.  The  Capper  firm 
had  to  sell  the  rest  of  his  shares;  he  had  to  see  the  Have- 
meyer  pictures;  he  had  to  uphold  the  honour  and  dig- 
nity of  his  country  at  lunch ;  he  had  to  go  for  a  "  joy  ride  " 
—  whatever  that  might  mean  —  with  Mr.  Capper;  and 
he  had  to  make  sure  of  closing  his  account  and  getting  a 
cheque.     It'd  be  a  busy  day. 

He  found  Mr.  Capper  optimistic,  and  told  him  he'd 
met  "Old  Man  Pyle"  at  dinner.  "That's  all  right,"  he 
was  told,  "as  long  as  he  did  n't  know  you  were  long  of 
M.  and  I.  But  anyhow,  j^ou're  almost  out.  Wait  till 
one  o'clock,  and  you  will  be  altogether  out  if  the  market 
opens  as  it  closed.  You'll  know  then  how  you  stand. 
And  we'll  have  our  ride.  I've  told  the  car  to  come  at 
quarter-past  two." 

That  day  Charles  did  everything  that  he'd  set  out  in 
the  hope  of  doing,  save  one  thing,  and  that  the  most  im- 
portant. He  had  the  satisfaction  of  hearing  that  all  his 


SEARCH    FOR   THE   LITTLE  BLUE    TURBAN     323 

holdings  of  Michigan  and  IlHnois  had  passed  into  other 
hands;  he'd  seen,  and  had  been  amazed  at  the  pictures; 
he'd  lunched  with  the  uxorious  Henry  and  his  amiable 
wife;  he  learnt  what  a  "joy  ride"  meant,  and  he'd  seen 
squirrels  in  Central  Park;  he'd  closed  his  account  with 
Messrs.  Capper,  Zanthro  and  Company  —  but  he  had 
not  succeeded  in  lifting  a  cheque.  That  was  reserved 
for  to-morrow.  Mr.  Capper  assured  him  there  would  be 
time  and  to  spare.  And,  indeed,  learning  at  length  what 
profitjhe  had  made,  Charles  was  not  surprised  that  it  was 
not  a  mere  question  of  putting  a  signature  to  a  piece  of 
paper.  In  the  first  place,  the  amount,  when  translated 
into  English  currency,  was  one  million  three  hundred 
and  forty-three  thousand  pounds  seventeen  shillings 
and  fourpence,  and  in  the  second,  Charles,  even  before 
he  knew  and  had  been  numbed  by  the  extent  of  his  for- 
tune, had  asked  Mr.  Capper  if  he  might  have  it  in  a 
banker's  cheque  on  London. 

"Certainly,"  Mr.  Capper  had  replied;  "a  Morgan 
cheque  '11  be  good  enough  for  you,  I  daresay.  Your  boat 
goes  at  midday.  Come  here  at  ten;  we'll  go  round  and 
get  the  cheque,  and  I  '11  take  you  across  to  the  boat."  Mr. 
Capper  was  genuinely  sorry  at  Charles's  departure,  but 
he  was  cheerful.  A  really  big  gamble  had  been  carried 
through,  his  client  had  got  away  with  it,  and  his  own 
profit  in  the  way  of  commissions  was  not  inconsiderable. 
And  perhaps  the  best  of  it  was  that,  large  as  Charles's 
profit  was,  no  one  seemed  to  have  tumbled  to  the  in- 
wardness of  his  transactions.  Mr.  Capper's  own  oflSce 
staff  had  been  trained  in  discretion,  and  while  Mr.  Dav- 
ison had  been  told  of  the  beginnings  of  the  affair,  he'd 


324  CAVIARE 

been  warned  not  to  let  it  go  any  further.  As  we  know, 
he  had  n't  said  anything  to  Mr,  Pyle.  If  Mr.  Capper 
had  one  regret,  it  was  that  Charles  had  n't  carried  the 
afiFair  further.  It  appeared  that  he  could  have  done  so 
with  success.  Michigan  and  Illinois,  in  spite  of  all  his 
unloading,  was  still  crescent.  Mr.  Capper  smiled  grimly 
when  he  thought  what  a  hole  he  could  have  made  in  the 
pool's  profits  if  he  'd  had  Charles's  information  —  what- 
ever it  was  —  had  believed  in  it  equally,  and  had  had  his 
nerve.  Then  he'd  have  been  able  to  buy  Rembrandts 
and  Velasquez.  He'd  have  been  able  to  hold  his  own  in 
any  market. 

And  now  Charles  nerved  himself  to  do  something 
that  he  ought  to  have  done  before.  Again  and  again 
he'd  thought  of  his  little  French  acquaintance  at  the 
Frontenac,  and  again  and  again  he'd  dismissed  the 
thought.  What  was  he  to  do?  What  could  he  do?  To 
retrieve  the  past  was  impossible.  So  he  had  said  to  him- 
self on  the  morrow  of  the  evening  he  had  spent  with  her. 
He  wanted  to  help  her;  he  would  do  all  that  he  could  to 
pluck  her  from  the  burning.   But  how? 

Three  days  ago  he  had  seen  her  —  for  the  second 
time  in  his  life;  and  she  had  appealed  strangely  to  him. 
He  remembered  how  for  many  nights  after  his  first  meet- 
ing with  her  at  the  Abbaye,  and  although  he  had  never 
thought  of  her  in  his  waking  hours,  that  little  yellow 
head,  crowned  with  a  blue  turban,  had  come  into  his 
dreams.  Her  tenderness  on  the  night  he  had  dined  with 
her,  her  care  for  him,  her  eyes  misty  with  the  dreams 
which  she  did  not  need  to  confess,  her  little  motion  of 
sympathy  and  affection  when  she  had  covered  his  hand 


SEARCH    FOR   THE   LITTLE    BLUE   TURBAN    325 

with  her  own  —  all  came  back  to  him.  And  he  had  put 
off  looking  for  her  again;  and  now  to-day,  because  she 
had  liked  him,  because  he  had  befriended  her,  he  was  a 
millionaire.  How  much  more  difficult  did  this  make  his 
duty!  True,  he  had  listened  to  her,  had  even  left  her, 
with  no  kind  of  intention  of  taking  the  tip  she  had  given 
him.  Nor  would  he  have  done  so  if  the  next  day  at 
breakfast  he  had  not  chanced  to  read  that  the  stock  she 
had  recommended  had  become  the  feature  of  the  mar- 
ket. 

Charles  argued  with  himself.  How  much  in  thanks 
did  he  owe  her?  In  very  fact,  to  what  extent  was  he  her 
debtor.?*  It  was  a  problem  that  would  want  a  colder 
brain  than  his  to  answer.  Knowing  not  at  all  what  he 
would  say  to  her,  what  thanks  he  should  render,  but 
knowing  too  that  he  must  go  to  her  and  that  he  must  thank 
her,  and  that  he  must  find  some  way  to  help  her,  he  left 
Wall  Street  and  walked,  thinking  rather  of  the  girl  he 
was  going  to  see  than  of  the  fortune  he  had  made,  up 
and  across  town  to  Washington  Square  and  the  Hotel 
Frontenac. 

Idiot!  The  word  was  Charles's,  and  it  was  addressed 
to  himself.  Here  he  was  on  the  very  steps  of  the  hotel, 
and  it  came  to  his  mind  in  a  flash  that  he  had  no  idea  for 
whom  to  ask.  Neither  in  Paris,  nor  three  nights  ago  here 
in  New  York,  had  he  thought  to  ask  her  name,  had  he  in- 
deed cared  to  ask  for  it.  What,  he  had  thought  —  if  he 
had  thought  at  all  —  would  it  matter?  Only  by  chance 
would  he  ever  see  her  again.  However,  in  French  hotels 
they  are  used  to  such  dilemmas,  and  when  Charles,  go- 
ing through  into  the  restaurant,  found  the  maitre  dliotel 


326  CAVIARE 

who  had  waited  on  him,  dropped  a  two-dollar  bill  into 
his  palm  and  asked  vaguely  if  the  lady  with  whom  he 
had  dined  three  nights  previously  had  been  lunching, 
he  was  answered  as  if  his  question  were  of  the  most 
ordinary  and  matter-of-fact  kind. 

"Ah,  Madame  Finot.  No,  monsieur,  Madame  Finot 
left  for  Europe  yesterday  in  the  Provence." 

Charles  felt  more  than  disappointment.  "Are  you 
quite  sure?  "  Perhaps,  he  thought,  she  might  have  gone 
West  to  join  her  friend  in  Chicago. 

"Quite  sure,  monsieur:  I  waited  always  myself  on 
Madame,  and  she  bade  me  good-bye." 

There  was  little  else  to  be  said.  Charles  went  to  the 
bureau.  "Madame  Finot  left  an  address  for  her  mail? 
If  I  give  you  a  letter  for  her,  will  it  be  forwarded?" 

"No,  monsieur,  we  have  no  address  for  -the  mail, 
either  of  Monsieur  or  Madame  Finot.  Monsieur  Finot 
did  not  live  here  all  the  time,  and  he  had  no  mail 
here.  I  did  ask,"  the  clerk  added,  "for  an  address,  but 
I  was  told  that  nothing  would  come,"  He  knew  his 
world. 

Charles  went  away.  How  could  he  find  her?  He 
could  n't  send  a  wireless  to  the  ship.  No  doubt  Monsieur 
Finot  was  with  her,  and  the  arrival  of  a  marconi- 
gram  might  have  unhappy  consequences.  His  heart 
ached.  "  Poor  handful  of  bright  spring- water  "  —  whose 
very  name  he  did  n't  know.  He  might  search  and  search 
the  world  which  held  such  figures,  and,  without  a  clearer 
description  than  he  could  give,  he  might  search  in  vain. 
Fate  had  decided  this  parting,  and  fate  might  keep  them 
apart.   He  could  look  for  her  in  Paris,  at  Monte  Carlo 


SEARCH    FOR   THE    LITTLE    BLUE   TURBAN    327 

or  Nice  or  Vienna.   Some  day  he  would  meet  her  again, 
perhaps.  .  .  . 

That  night,  his  last  in  New  York,  Charles  had  no 
heart  for  amusement,  for  distraction.  His  nerves  were 
a-jangle.  His  very  certainty  of  fortune,  and  of  Alison, 
was  insufficient  to  cheer  his  spirit.  Perhaps  he  was 
worn  out. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IN  WHICH  A  MANET  IS  BOUGHT,  MR.  CAPPER  IS  PLEASED 

AND   DISAPPOINTED,   AND  MR.    CARLINE   GETS  CHARLES's 

PRIVILEGES 

THE  next  morning  as  he  breakfasted  Charles  was 
called  again  to  the  telephone.  It  was  the  lady 
who  had  so  generously  taken  the  comfort  of  his 
voyage  on  her  shoulders.  Unfortunately  her  brother 
could  n't  come  down  to  the  dock :  he  'd  had  to  go  out  of 
town  over  the  week-end,  but  Charles  was,  he  'd  told  her, 
not  to  worry  at  all.  He'd  find  everything  fixed  up  on 
board.  He  could  just  go  to  his  stateroom  and  not  bother. 
Her  brother  had  assured  her  he  should  have  all  the  com- 
fort the  ship  could  afford:  he  was  to  have  a  better  room, 
and  his  chair  on  deck  and  his  place  at  table  were  being 
reserved.  " Where 'd  you  find  an  Englishwoman  who'd 
take  all  that  trouble  for  a  comparative  stranger  ? " 
Charles  asked  himself  as  he  thanked  her.  The  quality, 
and  the  quantity,  and  the  generosity  of  American  hospi- 
tality again  amazed  him. 

He  was  with  Mr.  Capper  at  the  exact  moment  that 
had  been  arranged,  and  Mr.  Capper  was  ready  for  him. 
"Don't  take  off  your  coat;  we'll  go  round  at  once";  and 
they  stepped  across  the  street  and  walked  up  half  a 
block.  Charles  found  himself  entering  the  house  of 
Morgan  and  Company,  and  in  exchange  for  certain 
documents  a  very  antique  but  no  doubt  very  capable 


CHARLES  IS  DONE  OUT  OF  HIS  PRIVILEGES  329 

gentleman  handed  him  a  cheque  for  the  enormous  figure 
that  he  'd  anticipated  —  a  cheque  which  he  had,  being 
still  a  business  man,  the  forethought  to  have  crossed 
and  marked  "Messrs.  Coutts  and  Company,  Payee's 
a/c."  Curious,  he  thought,  but  this  place  where  the 
American  Republic  is  managed  —  more  or  less  —  is 
rather  more  old-fashioned  than  a  London  private 
bank. 

"Can't  I  see  Mr.  Morgan?"  he  asked  Mr.  Capper  as 
they  left  the  counter. 

"No,  you  can't,"  Mr.  Capper  replied.  "You  don't 
see  Mr.  Morgan  by  asking." 

"Oh,  don't  you?"  Charles  replied.  "I  thought  all 
your  business  men  were  so  accessible,  and  that  all  you 
had  to  do  was  to  walk  right  in." 

Mr.  Capper  could  only  reply  that  it  was  n't  so  at 
the  corner  of  Wall  and  Broad. 

"Another  illusion  gone";  and  Charles  looked  at  his 
watch.  It  was  n't  half -past  ten.  His  things  were  to 
meet  him  at  the  boat.  He  had  nothing  to  do. 

"Now,  Mr.  Capper,  I'm  going  to  complete  my  good 
work.   I  want  you  to  have  a  good  painting  — " 

"What!"  Mr.  Capper  thought  he'd  not  heard  aright. 

"I  want  you  to  have  a  good  painting  —  no,  that's  a 
joke:  I'm  pulling  your  leg.  I  mean,  I  want  you  to  have 
a  good  painting  to  remember  me  by.  We've  got  time. 
You're  coming  uptown  with  me  and  we're  going  to 
Durand-Ruel's,  and  if  they've  got  anything  that  I 
think '11  do  you  good  and  help  you  on  the  right  path, 
I'm  going  to  give  it  you  with  a  nice  inscription  —  'from 
a  grateful  client,'  or  something  of  that  kind." 


330  CAVIARE 

Mr.  Capper  flushed  with  pleasure.  I've  said  before 
that  he  had  got  to  like  his  eccentric  client. 

The  dealer  had  many  pictures  which  Charles  would 
have  liked  for  himself,  but,  watching  Mr.  Capper  out  of 
the  corner  of  his  eye,  he  could  see  that  very  few  of  them 
would  have  been  welcomed  in  that  gentleman's  collec- 
tion. Nor  had  Mr.  Capper  any  idea  of  their  commercial 
value.  He  thought  they  were  worth  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars apiece.  He  distinguished  not  at  all  between  Monet 
and  Sisley,  Cezanne  and  Maufra.  "French  Impres- 
sionists," all  of  them;  "they  evade  all  problems  of  draw- 
ing," he  wanted  to  say.  It  was  a  phrase  he'd  picked  up. 
He  thought  it  had  the  sanction  of  Sir  William  Richmond. 
And  Charles  was  amused  at  the  comedy.  He  had  half 
a  mind  to  give  his  victim  a  large  Degas,  of  a  woman 
whose  face  it  is  impossible  to  see:  her  head  is  bent,  one 
sees  its  top,  and  her  hair  flowing  down  and  being  combed 
with  a  lifted  and  clumsy  arm.  But  Mr.  Capper  had 
served  him  honestly.  It  would  be  a  shame  to  give  him 
anything  at  once  so  fine  and  so  difficult.  But  there  were 
two  Manets,  and  one,  of  a  beggar  musician,  Charles 
chose.  Mr.  Capper  did  know  that  Manet  was  really  a 
painter.  So  far  his  knowledge  carried  him.  But  his  sym- 
pathies were  not  aroused.  The  picture  left  him  cold. 
Charles  saw  that.  Some  day  or  other  he'd  find  out  that 
it  was  a  worth-while  painting  all  right.  Then  he'd  be 
surprised. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mr.  Capper,  but  you'll  have  to 
help  me  out  here.  I  can't  ask  this  gentleman  to  change 
Messrs.  Morgan's  cheque.  Besides,  it's  crossed.  You'll 
have  to  go  bail  for  me.   They'll  no  doubt  be  willing  to 


CHARLES  IS  DONE  OUT  OF  HIS  PRIVILEGES  331 

send  the  painting  to  your  office,  and  you  can  tell  'em  I  'm 
honest  and  that  I  can  be  trusted  to  pay  for  it.  They'll 
send  the  bill  to  me  in  London." 

Later,  let  me  add,  in  the  following  week,  when  Charles 
was  on  the  sea,  Mr.  Capper  showed  the  picture  to  a  few 
friends  on  whose  judgment  he  placed  some  weight.  They 
all  thought  his  young  friend  might  have  been  more 
generous.  However,  that  his  client  should  have  given  it 
him  gave  the  broker  in  the  mean  time  a  great  deal  of 
satisfaction.  He  was  quite  sorry  when  the  bugle  sounded 
and  he  had  to  leave  Charles  on  the  steamer.  As  he  did 
so,  and  as  their  hands  parted,  Charles  leant  forward  and 
whispered  in  his  ear:  "I've  another  secret.  It  was  n't 
really  my  birthday  yesterday,  you  know:  I'm  more 
than  twenty-one." 

Charles  sought  his  stateroom.  He  had  left  America. 
He  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  world,  the  life  he  knew. 
He'd  visited  New  York;  he'd  done  his  best  to  do  as  Mr. 
Gorham  had  suggested  —  and  he  'd  failed.  He  could  n't 
pretend  he  'd  done  any  work.  He  'd  used  his  wits  —  a 
little  —  and  that  was  all  he  could  say.  But  that  he  'd 
done  before  —  often,  in  Mount  Street,  in  Paris,  at 
Monte  Carlo.  It  was  n't  enough.  His  one  defence,  if 
defence  proved  necessary,  was  that  he'd  been  prepared 
to  stop  where  he  w^as.  Events  had  moved  rapidly,  and 
he'd  made  a  fortune;  but  it  was  n't  altogether  his  fault. 
Chance  had  favoured  him.  Fortune,  though,  or  no  for- 
tune, he'd  been  called  back.  Mr.  Gorham  wanted  him, 
and  he'd  answered  his  summons.  After  all,  they  had  n't 
given  him  much  chance  to  work.  And  yet,  if  Mr.  Davi- 


332  CAVIARE 

son  had  taken  him  more  seriously  at  that  first  interview, 
and  had  really  tried  to  help,  then  perhaps  in  spite  of  his 
preoccupation  on  that  morning  with  Michigan  and  Illi- 
nois, he'd  never  have  gone  into  Wall  Street.  Things 
would  be  very  different  now  in  that  case! 

Back  in  his  room  Charles  sat  down  on  his  bed.  It 
would  n't  be  worth  while  to  unpack.  He'd  be  moved 
directly,  and  if  he  did  get  out  his  things  they  'd  only  get 
in  a  muddle.  He  wished  the  purser  would  hurry  up. 
They  were  outside  the  harbour  now,  and  the  boat  was 
pitching  a  good  deal  in  a  head  wind.  Charles  was  a  fair 
sailor,  but  still  .  .  .  After  a  while  he  lay  down,  covered 
himself  with  a  rug,  and  went  to  sleep.  When  he  awoke 
it  was  already  dark.  And  it  was  nearly  time  for  dinner. 
He  felt  better,  and  he  got  up  and  dressed.  He  did  n't 
call  this  delay  in  telling  him  where  his  new  room  was 
exactly  satisfactory  management.  It  was  a  German 
boat. 

Ready  for  dinner,  he  made  his  way  down  to  the  sa- 
loon. He  'd  been  told  to  leave  the  question  of  his  place 
at  table.  He  sought  the  head  steward,  to  whom  the 
name  of  Caerleon  did  n't  seem  to  mean  much.  He  was 
given  a  card  with  the  number  of  his  place.  It  was  near 
the  foot  of  the  long  centre  table.  Soon  his  neighbours 
joined  him.  Charles  was  dismayed  to  find  that  they 
were  all  Germans,  and  all,  as  far  as  he  could  make  out, 
drummers.  They  returned  his  bow  and  afterwards  ig- 
nored him.  Perhaps  they  did  n't  talk  English.  The 
meal  passed  without  Charles  uttering  a  word.  He  was 
still  under  the  weather  and  wanted  some  soup  and  a 
wing  of  chicken,  but  to  reach  the  latter  course  he  had, 


CHARLES  IS  DONE  OUT  OF  HIS  PRIVILEGES  333 

he  found,  by  the  rules  of  this  German  line,  to  wait 
through  all  the  other  courses.  And  '^each  course  was 
timed  by  a  piece  of  music.  It  would  begin,  and  the 
stewards  would  march  in,  carrying  dishes.  Charles  sup- 
posed he  'd  have  to  stand  it  for  six  nights.  But  surely  the 
special  instructions  for  his  comfort  had  n't  yet  filtered 
down  to  the  dining-saloon.  He'd  no  doubt  be  better  off 
to-morrow,  and  with  people  who  talked  something  else 
than  the  harsh  gutturals  of  the  Fatherland.  It  is  n't  a 
language,  Charles  said  rudely  to  himself;  it's  a  disease. 
His  chicken  finished,  he  bowed  again  to  his  neighbours 
and  went  at  once  to  his  room.  He  did  n't  feel  well 
enough  to  seek  the  purser.  Besides,  he  expected  to  find 
that  while  he  had  listened  to  Wagner  and  Brahms  and 
Lehar  his  room  had  been  changed.  It  had  n't.  He 
went  to  bed. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  next  morning  he  lay  half  awake 
thinking  that  one  day  on  the  homeward  journey  was 
nearly  over.  This  very  week  he'd  see  Alison.  Then  he 
thought  he  'd  declare  himself  to  the  purser.  Why  be  un- 
comfortable when  all  he  had  to  do  was  to  ask  for  some- 
thing better.'  His  stateroom  was  horribly  small  and 
crowded  and  stuffy,  and  the  porthole  could  n't  be  opened 
because  of  the  waves.  Ringing  for  the  steward,  he  sent 
a  card  to  the  purser  requesting  him  to  spare  a  minute  or 
two  of  his  time.  An  assistant  came  to  him.  The  purser 
himself  was  sorry,  but  he  could  not  leave  his  office. 
What  could  he  do  for  Mr.  Caerleon?  Charles  felt  that 
something  had  gone  awry. 

"I  asked  if  I  could  see  the  purser  himself,  because  I 
understood  before  coming  on  board  that  I  was  to  have 


334  CAVIARE 

a  better  room,  and  that  I  was  to  be  made  rather  more 
comfortable  than  I  had  at  first  expected." 

The  assistant  had  heard  that  tale  before.  He  bowed, 
and  said  he  would  inquire.  "  Mr.  Caerleon  is  the  name, 
is  it  not?"    He  pronounced  it  Kay-er-leon. 

Charles  turned  on  his  side  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep 
again.  The  more  time  he  could  spend  in  unconscious- 
ness the  quicker  the  days  would  pass.  But  he  was  soon 
aroused.  This  time  the  purser  himself.  A  very  high 
ober-puTser  (if  that  means  nothing  at  all,  blame  Charles : 
it  represents  his  attempt  to  reproduce  in  all  its  Teutonic 
dignity  the  greatness  of  the  oflficer  who  now  waited  on  him) . 

"  I  'm  afraid,  Mr.  Caerleon,  there 's  been  a  mistake  — 
oh!  a  terrible  mistake." 

"What's  happened?  Surely  the  boat  goes  to  Cher- 
bourg? I'm  not  on  the  way  round  the  Horn  by  any 
chance,  am  I?" 

"Yes,  the  boat  goes  to  Cherbourg."  The  purser 
did  n't  smile.  The  situation  was  far  too  serious.  "They 
telephoned  from  the  office  the  night  before  we  sailed  to 
say  I  was  to  take  special  care,  as  I  thought,  of  Mr.  Car- 
line.  There  is  a  Mr,  Carline  on  board.  He 's  often  sailed 
with  us.  He's  a  gentleman  in  the  drug  business.  They 
said  I  was  to  see  that  he  got  a  room  and  a  bathroom  on  B 
deck,  and  a  good  chair,  and  a  good  place  at  table.  He 's 
got  them.  It  's  the  mistake  of  the  clerk  for  not  making 
the  name  clear.  Now,  what  can  I  do?  I  can't  very  well 
turn  him  out  of  the  stateroom  he 's  been  given.  And  I 
can't  take  his  place  at  table  away  from  him.  If  only 
I'd  known  before!"  The  poor  man  was  genuinely  con- 
cerned. As  well  he  might  be,  thought  Charles. 


CHARLES  IS  DONE  OUT  OF  HIS  PRIVILEGES  335 

"And  now?  There  is  n't  another  empty  room  on  the 
ship,  except  one  or  two  much  inferior  to  this,  and  there 
is  n't  a  place  at  table  to  which  I  can  alter  you."  The 
more  he  talked  the  more  guttural,  the  more  German  he 
became. 

"Well,  it  can't  be  helped,"  Charles  said.  "Anyway, 
I  've  got  what  I  paid  for  —  only  I  do  wish  my  table  com- 
panions talked  something  else  than  German." 

A  little  later,  as  he  walked  up  and  down  the  deck, 
trying  to  work  out  from  the  previous  twenty-four  hours' 
run  at  what  time  they  should  get  to  Cherbourg,  he  heard 
his  name  called  from  one  of  the  near-by  chairs.  Turning, 
he  saw  an  old  friend,  an  attache  at  the  British  Embassy 
at  Washington.  He  dropped  into  an  empty  place  at  his 
side. 

"What  have  you  been  doing  in  America?"  his  friend 
asked. 

Charles  had  to  lie  with  readiness.  "Oh,  I  went  over 
for  three  days  to  do  a  little  business.  I  only  arrived  last 
Wednesday.  I  'd  intended  to  look  you  up  if  I  'd  stopped 
any  longer." 

"I  saw  your  name  on  the  list,  but  I  could  n't  suppose 
it  was  you.  I  don't  associate  you  with  America,  some- 
how. But  where 's  your  room?  And  where  are  you 
at  table?  I  wish  I'd  known.  We  could  have  been  to- 
gether." 

Charles  told  him  about  the  room  and  the  place  that 
some  other  passenger  had  secured.  His  friend  slapped 
his  knee,  and  went  off  into  a  peal  of  laughter.  "Oh, 
that  is  good!  I  shan't  forget  that  in  a  hurry.  We've 
been  wondering  why  they  put  the  dullest  ass  that  ever 


336  CAVIARE 

sailed  up  at  our  end  of  the  table.  Carline's  his  name, 
all  right.  He  sits  between  me  and  von  Donigsmark,  and 
he 's  got  absolutely  nothing  to  say.  Sugden  —  you 
know :  one  of  those  men  who  make  millions  a  year  pack- 
ing meat  —  is  opposite  us.  He's  got  the  captain's  suite, 
and  last  night  we  went  up  to  his  sitting-room  to  talk  and 
play  bridge.  It 's  a  sort  of  party  we  're  to  have  every  day 
—  it  '11  be  a  haven  of  refuge.  Sugden  asked  your  name- 
sake —  he  could  n't  help  it  exactly,  as  he  was  there  right 
in  the  middle  of  us  at  every  meal  —  and  the  man  came 
up  after  dinner.  He  could  n't  play  bridge,  and  he  did  n't 
know  what  we  were  talking  about.  Never  in  my  life  did 
I  see  a  more  absolute  fish  out  of  water."  And  he  went 
off  into  laughter  again. 

Still,  even  one  friend  helped  the  voyage  to  pass. 
Charles's  neighbours  at  table  continued  to  behave  as  if 
English  was  a  language  they  understood  not  at  all.  They 
talked  across  him  and  behind  him  and  over  him  —  but 
they  ignored  him.  Of  course  he  was  an  Englishman. 
The  voyage  was  unconscionably  dull,  but  it  came  to  an 
end.  And  long  as  it  seemed,  even  the  run  to  Paris  from 
Cherbourg  could  not  last  for  ever.  Charles  reached  the 
Chatham  at  half-past  two  on  the  morning  of  Friday. 
He  had  left  it  not  three  weeks  ago.  "I  never  expected 
to  come  back  a  millionaire,"  he  said  to  himself;  "I'll 
just  have  to  be  responsible  now.  Old  Pieman  shall 
respect  me  at  last!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN    WHICH    THE    AMIABLE    CHARLES    FINDS    MR.    GORHAM 
AND    BEGINS    TO    UNRAVEL    A    VERY    TANGLED    SKEIN. 

CHARLES  had  warned  Miss  Gorham  of  his  ar- 
rival. He  had  telegraphed  from  Cherbourg 
that  he  'd  call  at  the  Meurice  at  ten  o'clock  — 
or  earlier,  if  she  sent  for  him.  Otherwise,  anything  be- 
fore ten  would  hardly  be  decent. 

Miss  Gorham  did  n't  send  for  him,  but  she  sent  him 
a  letter.     He  got  it  as  he  dressed. 

Dear  Mr.  Caerleon,  —  I  can  never  thank  you 
enough  for  your  kindness  to  my  father  in  coming  back 
from  New  York  at  his  wish.  I  want  to  warn  you  that 
he  is  very  ill.  He  cannot  talk  to  you.  He  cannot  speak 
or  even  move.  When  he  came  back  last  week  and  read 
his  letters  and  cables  he  was  terribly  upset;  but  he 
seemed  to  pull  himself  together,  and  I  thought  he  'd  soon 
be  himself  again.  But  almost  at  once  another  cable 
came,  and  after  a  little  while  he  had  a  stroke.  The  doc- 
tors seem  to  have  little  hope.  I  will  tell  you  more  when 
I  see  you.  Although  he  can't  talk,  he  can  understand  — 
but  he  gets  so  easily  tired.  Your  name  was  the  last 
word  he   uttered.  —  Yours   faithfully, 

Alison  Gorham. 

Charles  put  the  letter  down,  went  to  the  window  and 
threw  it  open.    What  did  it  mean?    What  news  from 


338  CAVIARE 

America?  What  news  could  have  broken  a  warrior  so 
redoubtable  as  Mr.  Gorham  had  seemed?  And  Miss 
Gorham  said  "last  week."  Nothing  had  happened  in 
America  when  he  was  there  —  and  nothing  had  happened 
since.  All  important  news  had  reached  the  Prinzessin 
Mathilde  day  by  day. 

Another  knock  at  his  door.  Another  letter.  "A  lady 
has  just  left  this,"  the  chasseur  announced,  and,  inter- 
rogated, added  that  she  had  gone.  The  handwriting  on 
the  envelope  was  different  from  that  of  which  he  had 
been  thinking.  Alison's  handwriting  —  which  he  'd  just 
seen  for  the  first  time  —  was  like  its  maker.  Who  else 
could  know  of  his  arrival?  It  was  Mrs.  Phillips:  he 
might  have  guessed. 

Dear  Mr.  Caerleon,  —  Please  do  not  tell  Miss 
Gorham  I  've  written  this  to  you.  I  'm  leaving  it  at  your 
hotel  myself,  to  be  sure  you  get  it.  I  want  only  to  say 
one  thing.  She  is  terribly  overwrought.  She  is  hardly 
mistress  of  herself,  although  she  has  borne  up  wonder- 
fully since  her  father's  illness  began.  I  am  afraid  of  a 
breakdown.  She  will  do  everything  herself.  Do  all  you 
can  to  find  out  what  it  is  that  Mr.  Gorham  wants  of  you 

—  he  wants  something :  he  asked  for  you  again  and  again 

—  and  then,  if  you  can,  grant  his  wish.  I  may  not  have 
the  opportunity  of  talking  to  you.  Please  forgive  the 
officiousness  of 

Constance  Phillips. 

What  had  happened?  What  could  be  the  trouble  be- 
hind these  letters?  What  could  Mr.  Gorham,  even  Mr. 
Gorham  so  stricken,  want  of  him?   However,  it  was  no 


A  VERY   TANGLED   SKEIN  339 

use  to  ask  himself  these  questions.  And  it  would  n't  do 
to  answer  Mrs.  Phillips.  Alison  might  see  the  letter  and 
recognise  his  hand.  If  only  the  kind  woman  had  waited 
after  delivering  the  letter,  that  he  might  have  talked  to 
her  and  found  what  really  had  brought  her  friend  down. 

Ten  o'clock  struck  as  Charles  gave  his  name  to  the 
Meurice  porter.  Alison  came  to  him  at  once.  "I  have 
been  waiting  anxiously  for  you,  Mr.  Caerleon,"  and  she 
gave  him  her  hand  so  freely  and  with  so  open  a  welcome 
that  his  heart  warmed.  He  looked  hard  at  her.  She  had 
altered.  Something  was  lost,  but  more  had  been  gained. 
There  had  always  been  something  a  little  too  sensible 
about  Alison,  a  little  too  self-reliant  and  contained.  Her 
father  had  said  that  she  spent  his  money,  and  that  she 
did  n't  trouble  herself  or  know  how  it  was  got.  That, 
perhaps,  had  been  the  keynote  of  her  character.  It  had 
come  from  ignorance  of  the  world.  She  had  been  shielded 
from  trouble.  Things  that  harass  and  strengthen  had 
been  kept  from  her.  Now  she  was  in  Paris  almost  alone, 
and  for  the  first  time  she  was  learning  that  life  was  n't  a 
fair  for  her  amusement.   And  she  had  gained  in  beauty. 

There  was  little  Charles  could  say.  "I  was  very 
happy.  Miss  Gorham,  to  come  directly  I  heard  that 
your  father  wanted  me.  You  see,  I  never  should  have 
gone  away.  Please  tell  me.  I  know  nothing  save  that 
your  father  is  so  ill  —  I  only  know  what  your  letter 
told  me." 

"I  don't  know  very  much  myself,  Mr.  Caerleon." 

Charles  could  see  that  she  was  near  to  breaking  down. 
Those  black  shadows  beneath  her  eyes  told  of  sleepless 
nights. 


340  CAVIARE 

Alison  continued:  "When  you  went,  Papa  was  still 
away,  was  n't  he?  We  knew  —  you  told  me,  I  remem- 
ber —  that  he  'd  been  kidnapped  so  that  he  could  n't 
go  on  with  some  business  he  was  doing.  Well,  I  think 
his  enemies  were  even  more  successful  than  he  'd  feared. 
You  know,  he  said  he  thought  he'd  be  free  in  so  many 
days.  That,  apparently,  was  the  time  it'd  take  them  to 
get  even  with  him  and  upset  some  plan  of  his.  He  was 
right.  In  the  end  he  was  simply  told  he  could  go.  They 
did  n't  even  make  any  secret  of  where  he  'd  been  kept. 
But  all  that  does  n't  matter  now.  He  came  back  to  me 
and  read  at  once  his  letters  and  cables.  It  was  about 
four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  He  sat  there  and  opened 
one  after  another,  hardly  speaking  to  me.  I  watched 
him.  They  seemed  to  disturb  him  greatly;  but,  as  you 
know,  he  was  n't  a  man"  —  Charles  noticed  the  past 
tense  —  "to  show  what  he  felt  if  he  could  help  it." 
"Did  you  know  why  he  was  disturbed,  Miss  Gorham?  " 
"No  —  but  I  learned.  But  wait.  When  he'd  read 
all  there  was,  he  looked  at  me  and  smiled  rather  oddly. 
'They've  not  left  me  much,  my  dear,'  he  said.  Then 
he  got  up  and  walked  into  his  own  room  and  shut  the 
door.  I  could  hear  him  moving  about.  A  few  minutes 
later  another  cable  came.  It  was  the  regular  afternoon 
cable.  I  called  out  to  him,  and  he  came  to  the  door 
and  took  it.  I  thought  he  looked  terribly  ill.  You  see, 
I  'm  explaining  everything  to  you,  Mr.  Caerleon.  Then 
I  heard  nothing  at  all  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
suddenly  a  fall.  I  knew  it  was  Papa.  He'd  fallen  in  a 
heap  in  front  of  his  writing-table.  I  thought  he  was 
dead.    He  did  n't  seem  to  breathe.    I  left  him  and  ran 


A  VERY   TANGLED   SKEIN  341 

quickly  to  Constance,  who's  only  four  doors  down  the 
passage.  She  came,  and  then  she  telephoned  to  the 
office  to  send  a  doctor  at  once.  We  laid  Papa  on  his 
bed  and  loosened  his  collar.  I  could  see  then  that  he 
was  still  alive.  It  was  a  French  doctor.  He  said  Papa  'd 
had  a  stroke.  Another  doctor  was  sent  for.  And  they 
were  with  him  over  an  hour,  while  Constance  and  I 
sat  in  the  other  room.  It  was  so,  so  awful.  I  shall  never 
forget  it." 

"Did  you  look  at  the  cable?  Was  it  there  still  when 
you  went  in?" 

"Yes.  I  have  it  upstairs.  But  I  remember  what  it 
said.  It  was  simply,  'Price  now  twenty-eight  five- 
eighths.'     I  don't  know  what  it  means." 

Charles  did,  of  course.  He  realised  that  Mr.  Gorham's 
speculations  must  have  gone  even  more  awry  than  the 
financier  had  anticipated.  But  he  was  n't  allowed  to 
carry  his  thoughts  far. 

"When  the  doctors  came  in  they  said  I  was  to  get  a 
couple  of  nurses  at  once.  I  did  n't:  I  only  got  one. 
I  wanted  to  do  as  much  for  Papa  myself  as  I  could. 
The  nurse  looks  after  him  all  day;  I  stop  with  him  at 
night.  One  of  the  doctors  stayed  all  the  evening  —  till 
midnight.  He  said  Papa  might  come  to  himself  a  little 
—  and  he  did,  later  in  the  evening.  Oh,  it  was  so  dread- 
ful! He  lay  there  on  the  bed  quite  white;  all  his  colour 
was  gone.  I  was  watching  him,  and  his  eyes  opened  and 
he  looked  at  me.  Then  he  whispered  —  for  he  could  not 
speak  out  —  'Caerlcon,  I  want  Caerleon,'  and  a  minute 
later  he  said  the  same  words.  After  that  —  it  is  more 
than  a  week  ago  —  he  seemed  to  become  unconscious; 


342  CAVIARE 

perhaps  he  fell  asleep.  And  since  then  he's  been  quite 
helpless.  He  can  move  his  fingers  a  little,  and  his  eyes 
and  eyelids;  but  that  is  all.  And  he  can  understand  what 
I  say  to  him,  but  not,  I  think,  what  the  others  say.  I 
told  him  you  were  coming  directly  I  got  your  cable,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  been  made  happier,  more  peaceful. 
He  knows  you  are  to  be  here  at  half -past  ten  —  I  told 
him  that  time  that  I  might  talk  to  you  first."  Alison 
broke  off  for  a  minute  and  looked  at  Charles.  "But,  Mr. 
Caerleon,  I  have  n't  thanked  you  for  coming.  I  don't 
know  whether  you  were  in  New  York  on  business,  but 
I  am  sure  that  I  know  no  one  else  whom  I  could  have 
relied  on  to  come  at  my  call  as  you  did.  I  want  you  to 
know  how  grateful  I  am,  how  very  grateful."  Her  voice 
quivered,  and  Charles  took  her  hand.  A  hundred  sen- 
tences came  to  his  lips,  but  he  said  no  one  of  them. 

"Miss  Gorham,  I  am  very  happy  if  I  can  be  of  any 
service  to  you;  my  voyage  was  nothing." 

Alison  rose.  "Come,"  she  said.  "Let  us  go  up.  I'll 
go  in  first  and  tell  Papa  I  've  brought  you.  Speak  to  him 
clearly,  and  I  think  perhaps  he'll  understand  you.  I 
shall  leave  you  with  him.  The  doctor  comes  at  twelve." 

When  a  few  minutes  later  Charles  was  called  to  Mr. 
Gorham 's  bedside,  he  was  shocked  at  the  spectacle  the 
financier  presented.  When  he'd  seen  him  last  he  had 
been  ruddy  and  well  covered.  Now  he  was  white  and 
emaciated.  His  hair  too  seemed  to  have  dropped  away. 
His  head  appeared  a  dead  thing  on  the  pillow.  Its  im- 
mobility terrified. 

"I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Gorham,  you  should  be  so  ill," 


A  VERY   TANGLED   SKEIN  343 

Charles  said,  "but  I  am  glad  you  sent  for  me."  They 
were  alone.  "Your  daughter  tells  me  you  can't  speak 
yet,  but  that  your  eyes  are  all  right.  You  must  let  me 
find  out  what  you  want  by  asking  questions,  and  you 
can  answer  'y^s'  or  'no'  —  by  closing  your  eyes  if  it's 
'  no '  you  want.  There  is  no  hurry.  I ' ve  all  the  time  there 
is."  Charles  looked  at  Mr.  Gorham:  he  fancied  his  eyes 
showed  appreciation  and  intelligence,  but  he  could  not 
be  sure.  It  was  stupid  not  to  have  found  out  from  Alison 
if  there  was  any  kind  of  code  already  in  operation.  But 
he  must  make  sure  that  what  he'd  himself  suggested 
would  work. 

"Do  I  tire  you,  Mr.  Gorham.'*  Now  you  know  I'm 
here,  would  you  rather  I  came  back?  " 

The  eyes  in  that  still  head  closed. 

"I  am  glad,"  said  Charles;  "and  because  I  think  that 
more  talking  than  is  necessary  will  tire  you,  I  'm  going 
to  plunge  straight  into  things.  When  I  was  here  you 
told  me  your  enemies  in  New  York  wanted  to  kidnap 
you  so  that  they  might  defeat  your  stock  exchange  plans. 
They  've  succeeded,  I  take  it?  "  The  eyes  did  not  move. 
"And  in  some  way  things  are  even  worse  than  you  ex- 
pected they  'd  be?  Yes.  You  risked  your  fortune  in  one 
deal,  and  it's  gone  awry?  You  learned  how  far  wrong 
from  the  cables  that  waited  you  when  you  got  back  here, 
and  specially  from  the  last  one  that  came  just  before  you 
fell  ill?  You  want  me  to  read  them  that  I  may  under- 
stand? Miss  Gorham  has  them?"  The  eyes  closed. 
"Then  I  must  find  them.  They  are  in  the  pocket  of  the 
coat  you  were  wearing?  No?  In  one  of  the  drawers  of 
your  writing-table?     Yes." 


344  CAVIARE 

Charles  went  to  the  table  and  opened  the  drawers  one 
by  one.  Those  at  the  top  had  been  usurped  by  the 
nurse.  One  at  the  side  contained  a  little  pile  of  cables. 
Charles  looked  at  the  one  on  the  top.  It  read :  "  Price 
now  thirty  and  quarter."  And  those  same  words,  but 
with  a  diflFerence  in  the  numerals,  were  in  each  of  the 
cables  beneath  it,  while  those  sent  on  the  days  immedi- 
ately following  the  date  of  Mr.  Gorham's  disappearance 
had  additional  messages,  commenting,  mildly  to  begin 
with,  and  then  with  obvious  dismay,  on  the  fact  that 
none  of  the  usual  replies  had  been  forthcoming.  At  last 
their  sender  seemed  to  have  lost  heart.  His  remon- 
strances ceased;  he  returned  to  the  bare  announce- 
ment of  the  state  of  the  market. 

Charles  looked  up.  "I've  read  all  these,  Mr.  Gor- 
ham.  It  comes  to  this:  you've  lost  your  fortune,  is  n't 
that  it.'*  Practically  all  you  have  in  the  world?"  The 
eyes  did  not  move.  "Then  we  must  start  from  that. 
You  know  I  hope  soon  to  be  your  son-in-law,  so  you 
must  consider  me  one  of  the  family.  To  begin  with, 
you  must  give  me  back  my  promise  —  you  must  let  me 
choose  my  own  time  to  ask  your  daughter."  Still  the 
eyes  did  not  move.  "That,  then,  is  understood.  But  if 
you  've  lost  your  fortune,  I  've  made  one.  Almost  by 
accident  I  've  made  nearly  seven  million  dollars  since  we 
parted.  No,  you  think  I'm  talking  nonsense,  but  I'm 
not.  Here,  see"  —  and  Charles  took  out  the  Morgan 
cheque  and  held  it  before  Mr.  Gorham's  eyes. 

"I  must  explain.  I  had  some  money  when  I  got  to 
New  York,  and  a  friend  told  me  that  if  I  bought  at  a  cer- 
tain time  a  certain  stock  I  'd  make  a  lot.   I  did.   It  went 


A  VERY  TANGLED   SKEIN  345 

down  and  I  was  nearly  cleared  out,  and  then  it  bounded 
up  and  never  ceased  going  up;  I  bought  and  bought 
more  shares  with  my  profits,  and  this  is  the  result.  It 's 
all  for  Miss  Gorham.     Michigan  and  111 — " 

But  Mr.  Gorham  had  stirred,  and  his  lips  moved. 
Words  came  from  his  mouth,  whispered  words.  "  Go  — 
call  Allison  — wait  other  room." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

IN  WHICH  THE  TANGLE  IS  UNRAVELLED  AND  THE  AMI- 
ABLE CHARLES  PARTS  WITH  FIVE  MILLION  DOLLARS 
AS   IF   IT   WERE   HALF   A   CROWN. 

CHARLES  was  not  to  see  Mr.  Gorham  again  that 
morning.  While  he  waited  the  doctor  arrived, 
and  after  a  while  Alison  came  out  to  say  that 
he  was  to  go  away  and  to  come  back,  if  he  would,  at 
three.  In  the  hours  that  had  to  pass  he  thought  over 
what  Alison  had  told  him  and  what  he  had  managed  to 
learn  from  Mr.  Gorham  himself.  He  felt  he  could  re- 
construct what  had  happened  to  Mr.  Gorham  with 
tolerable  accuracy  and  in  some  detail.  But,  curiously, 
to  two  things  which  might  have  leapt  to  his  intelligence 
he  was  blind. 

Going  back  at  the  appointed  hour,  Charles  found  the 
doctor  still  with  Mr.  Gorham.  He  had  lunched  with 
Alison.     There  had  been  developments. 

"Doctor  Leduc  says  he  cannot  understand  the  sud- 
den change  that  has  come  over  Papa  since  he  saw  him 
yesterday.  He  must,  he  says,  have  had  a  great  shock 
again.  I  tell  him  that's  impossible.  I  don't  think  you 
can  have  given  him  any  shock,  Mr.  Caerleon.  But  what- 
ever it  was,  it  has  done  him  great  good.  You  know  he 
spoke  some  words  this  morning  to  you.  They  were  his 
first  for  more  than  a  week.  And  in  other  ways  he 's  bet- 
ter.   Doctor  Leduc  says  it 's  wonderful  —  and  he  even 


CHARLES   PARTS   WITH   FIVE   MILLIONS    347 

seems  a  little  hopeful.  Although,  perhaps  that's  only 
my  fancy.  But  here  is  Doctor  Leduc.  —  This  is  the 
gentleman  who  was  with  Papa  when  he  called  for  me 
this  morning,  doctor." 

"Indeed!  I  am  glad  to  see  him.  There  are  one  or 
two  questions  I  want  to  ask.  Were  you  —  I  understand 
from  Mademoiselle  Gorham  that  you  were  —  talking 
to  Monsieur  Gorham.'*  Yes.  Well,  he  asked  for  you 
just  after  he  fell  ill.  Had  you,  may  I  ask,  any  business 
together.'*" 

"Not  exactly."  The  question  was  a  little  difficult 
to  answer.  "We  had  talked  about  business,  and  it 
happened  that  he'd  explained  to  me  something  of 
what  he  was  doing,  and  then  I  —  well,  I  wanted  him 
to  do  something  for  me;  but  that  was  n't  business 
exactly." 

Doctor  Leduc's  eyes  twinkled;  he  looked  shrewdly  at 
Charles. 

"Can  you  remember  at  what  point  in  your  conversa- 
tion —  or,  it  was  n't  conversation,  since  you  must  have 
done  all  the  talking  —  Monsieur  Gorham  altered,  and 
called  for  his  daughter?  " 

Charles  tried  to  remember,  and  succeeded.  "I  had 
told  him  of  certain  good  fortune  I'd  had  in  America, 
had  shown  him  a  cheque  for  what  I  had  made,  and  — 
yes,  I  remember  —  I'd  just  mentioned  the  name  of  the 
railway  in  which  I'd  been  speculating  and  had  made 
money.  Why,  it  was  at  its  name  he  moved  first.  I 
recall  now  that  I  did  n't  finish  the  words." 

"Well,  Mademoiselle  Gorham  and  I  have  made  it  out 
that  it  has  been  some  business  anxiety  that  caused  her 


348  CAVIARE 

father's  illness,  and  some  great  loss.  You  may  depend 
on  it,  I  think,  that  your  railway  had  something  to  do 
with  it.  But  go  to  him  now.  He 's  spoken  once  since  I 
came,  and  then  it  was  to  say  your  name  again.  I  told 
him  I  'd  fetch  you  as  soon  as  I  could.  Talk  to  him.  It  'II 
tire  him,  but  that's  better  than  his  fretting.  Find  out 
more  if  you  can." 

Charles  fancied  that  Mr.  Gorham's  eyes  followed  him 
with  a  greater  alertness  than  in  the  morning.  He  took 
up  the  conversation  where  he  'd  left  it. 

"I  was  telling  you,  Mr.  Gorham,  of  my  good  luck. 
I  made  my  money  buying  Michigan  and  Illinois  shares. 
You  have  something  to  do  with  that  stock,  have  n't 
you?  "  And  then,  as  he  asked  and  as  he  watched  for  the 
possible  closing  of  Mr.  Gorham's  eyes,  illumination 
came.  Michigan  and  Illinois  —  "Old  Man  Pyle" — 
the  figures  on  the  cable  forms  in  the  drawer  there  — 
the  kidnapping:  of  course  they  were  all  connected. 
Michigan  and  Illinois  was  evidently  the  railway  in  which 
Mr.  Gorham  had  been  operating,  of  which  he  'd  told  him 
the  night  they'd  dined  together  at  Paillard's.  Mr.  Gor- 
ham had  been  put  out  of  the  way,  —  it  had  been  made 
impossible  for  him  to  support  the  market,  —  and  then 
the  shares  had  been  run  down  to  a  point  at  which  even 
his  large  fortune  had  been  swallowed  up,  and  Mr.  Pyle 
and  his  associates  had  started  securing,  or  re-securing, 
control.  That's  where  Charles  had  come  in.  He  just 
happened  into  the  market  at  the  psychological  moment. 
He  'd  helped  run  the  price  up,  and  his  buying  must  have 
interfered  even  more  than  Mr.  Capper  had  thought  with 
the  Pyle  operations.    Why,  the  money  that  Mr.  Gor- 


CHARLES   PARTS   WITH   FIVE   MILLIONS    349 

ham  had  lost  he  had  made.   It  was  all  clear  as  dayhght. 
But  he  must  make  sure. 

"Mr.  Gorham,  I  think  I've  got  this  thing  right  in  my 
mind  now.  Close  your  eyes  at  once  if  I  'm  wrong  in  any- 
thing I  say"  —  and  he  proceeded  to  tell  the  story  of  the 
last  fortnight  as  he  saw  it.  "Now,  then,  I'm  beginning 
to  understand,  and  I  'm  beginning  to  see  a  way  in  which 
I  can  be  of  use.  You  've  lost  more  than  you  ever  thought 
possible,  Mr.  Gorham.^  They've  just  cleaned  you  out, 
is  n't  that  so.''  That  last  cable  giving  the  price  as  twenty- 
eight  five-eighths  showed  you  you  were  done  for  for 
the  present.  But  you  have  n't  lost  everything,  have 
you  ?    You've  got  something  left?" 

Mr.  Gorham's  lips  shaped  themselves  to  a  "no"; 
perhaps  he  whispered  the  word. 

"Nothing?  But  you  have  n't  lost  more  than  you've 
got?  What  do  you  call  it?  —  you '11  be  able  to  meet  your 
obligations?" 

This  time  the  "no"  was  unmistakeable. 

"Then  I  must  find  out  by  how  much  you're  short. 
I'll  put  it  in  dollars  —  I'm  getting  quite  used  to  them! 
—  and  I  '11  jump  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  at  a  time." 

It  was  a  tedious  business.  The  end  of  it  was  that  Mr. 
Gorham  made  clear  that  he  was  bound  to  fail,  and  that 
the  extent  of  his  deficit  would  be  something  over  five 
million  dollars.  Then  —  and  days  later  when  he  talked 
the  matter  over  with  Alison  —  he  came  to  the  certainty 
that  it  was  n't  the  loss  of  his  fortune  that  had  brought 
Mr.  Gorham  down.  That  he  could  have  stood.  No, 
what  had  come  as  the  one  unbearable  thing  was  that 
he  'd  lost  more  than  he  could  pay,  that  he  'd  be  bankrupt. 


350  CAVIARE 

Not  even  of  Alison  had  he  been  thinking,  although  he  'd 
never  provided  for  her.  He  was  thinking  not  of  her,  but 
of  the  name  of  Gorham. 

And  Charles,  who  was  n't  a  business  man,  who  had 
been  until  the  last  few  days  a  stranger  to  all  the  con- 
ventions of  that  business  which  was  Mr.  Gorham's 
life  and  soul,  knew,  as  he  stood  by  his  bedside,  exactly 
how  the  old  man  felt.  It  was  Alison's  father  who 
was  there.  But  how  simple  it  'd  be  to  put  the  matter 
right. 

"  Mr.  Gorham,  we  can  fix  that.  Your  daughter  knows 
what  I  don't  know  —  the  address  of  your  oflSce  or  repre- 
sentative in  New  York,  and  of  your  banker.  I  'm  going 
out  to  her  now.  She '11  send  a  cable  to  each.  She'll  say, 
in  the  briefest  possible  manner,  that  ten  days  ago  you 
fell  so  ill  that  since  then  till  to-day  you  've  been  uncon- 
scious, but  that  now  you're  better,  and  that  because 
your  account  may  want  fortifying,  —  I  know  that 's  the 
word  in  England,  and  perhaps  it 's  right  in  America  too, 
—  you  are  cabling  five  million  dollars  from  London  in  the 
morning  (my  cheque 'son  London,  you  know),  and  that 
they're  to  cable  if  they  want  more."  ("  I  hope  to  good- 
ness they  won't,"  he  added  to  himself.) 

A  light  seemed  to  come  into  the  old  man's  eyes.  His 
lips  moved,  but  no  words  came.  And  then  a  fresh  won- 
der. He  moved  his  head  a  little,  a  very  little.  His  fin- 
gers opened.  Charles  had  the  feeling  that  they  were 
open  for  his.  He  placed  his  hand  in  the  old  man's  and 
pressed  it.  .  .  . 

He  could  add  nothing.  "I  am  going  now,"  he  said. 
"The  cables  will  be  sent  at  once.   It's  hardly  morning 


CHARLES   PARTS   WITH    FIVE   MILLIONS    351 

in  New  York.  And  then  I  shall  speak  to  Miss  Gorham 
—  Alison." 

The  old  man's  hand  responded.    Charles  left  him. 

Doctor  Leduc  had  to  be  told  of  the  change  in  his  pa- 
tient's condition.  He  went  to  him  at  once,  and  Charles 
had  to  explain  to  Alison  the  necessity  of  cabling.  She 
was  too  tired,  too  weary  to  understand  or  question. 
Besides,  she  took  it  for  granted  that,  if  Charles  was 
cabling  that  five  million  dollars  were  being  sent,  they 
were  being  sent  by  her  father's  instructions,  and  she 
supposed  that  Charles  had  to  go  to  London  to  get  them. 
She  was  grateful,  but  she  did  n't  try  to  realise  what  it 
all  meant.    They  wrote  the  cables  together. 

Going  out,  —  for  he  would  trust  them  to  no  one  else,  — 
Charles  met  Mrs.  Phillips  at  the  entrance  of  the  hotel. 
He  told  her  something  of  what  had  happened,  and  of 
Mr.  Gorham's  improvement,  and  he  told  her  rather 
proudly  that  he'd  been  able,  he  thought,  to  find  out 
what  Mr.  Gorham  wanted  and  to  do  it  for  him. 

"i\jid  now,  Mrs.  Phillips,  since  you 've  treated  me  with 
so  much  confidence,  I  want  you  to  do  something  for  me, 
and  I  want  to  return  your  confidence  if  you  '11  let  me.  I 
have  to  go  to  London  to-night  for  Mr.  Gorham.  I  shall 
come  back  by  the  eleven  train  to-morrow ;  but  I  shan't 
be  here  in  the  hotel  till  eight  o'clock.  I  want  to  see 
Miss  Gorham  alone  before  I  go.  She  tells  me  she 
has  n't  been  out  for  days.  The  doctor  is  going  to  stop 
there,  he  said,  for  some  hours.  I  shall  be  back  in  a  few 
minutes:  I'm  just  sending  some  cables.  Won't  you  make 
Miss  Gorham  be  ready  to  go  out  with  me  —  if  only  for 
half  an  hour.    We  will  walk  in  the  Tuileries  Gardens. 


352  CAVIARE 

Please  do  that  for  me.  You  can.  I  need  not  tell  you  why 
I  want  it  —  I  think  you  know." 

Mrs.  Phillips  held  out  her  hand.  "Mr.  Caerleon,  I  do 
know  —  and  I'll  do  all  I  can;  and  I  do  wish  you  the 
happiness  you  want,  indeed  I  do." 


CHAPTER  XX 

HAPPY   LOVE   IN   THE   TUILERIES   GARDENS 

CHARLES  found  Alison  waiting  for  him,  dressed 
for  a  walk.  "It  is  a  good  idea  of  yours,  Mr. 
Caerleon.  I '11  be  very  glad  to  go  out.  It's  the 
first  time  I've  had  the  heart  for  it.  But  you've  done 
Papa  so  much  good.  He  looks  so  different.  Doctor 
Leduc  won't  leave  him;  but  he's  delighted.  Where 
shall  we  go?  I  can  be  out  a  whole  hour." 

Still  a  little  of  the  winter  sun  shone  on  the  leaping 
fountains  of  the  Tuileries  Gardens  and  on  the  wheeling 
pigeons  of  the  cour  du  Louvre  and  gilded  the  roofs 
on  the  quai  d'Orsay  when  Charles  and  Alison  walked 
together  alone  for  the  first  time  of  their  friendship  — 
the  first  time  alone,  save  on  that  dark  morning  in  Febru- 
ary when  they  had  walked  down  in  search  of  aid  from  the 
rue  Lepic  to  the  place  Pigalle.  They  spoke  hardly  at 
all.  Charles  was  summoning  his  courage,  saying  to  him- 
self that  he  'd  enjoy  the  first  half-hour  before  he  put  his 
fate  to  the  test,  that  perhaps  he  would  do  it  when  they 
got  to  that  point  there,  or  to  that  further  on.  Suddenly 
Alison  turned  to  him. 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  I  feel  you  are  a  friend  both  of  Papa's 
and  of  mine.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question.  You  need 
n't  answer  it  if  you  don't  want  to,  but  if  you  do  answer  it, 
I  'm  sure  you  '11  tell  me  the  truth.  You  must  forgive  my 
being  so  odd  and  so  curious,  as  you  may  think,  —  but  it 


354  CAVIARE 

is  n't  curiosity."  She  would  n't  have  been  able  to  ex- 
plain what  it  was,  poor  girl,  if  it  was  n't  curiosity;  but 
then  she  had  n't  considered  the  implications  of  the  ques- 
tion she  had  for  Charles.  Even  if  she  had,  she  might 
have  asked  it.  American  girls  don't  beat  about  the 
bush. 

"You  may  ask  me  any  question  you  like,  Miss  Gor- 
ham,  and  I  shall  be  very  proud  to  answer  it  with  abso- 
lute frankness." 

"Mr.  Caerleon,  I  want  to  know  whether  on  that 
evening  on  which  Mrs.  Phillips  and  I  saw  you  off  to 
Monte  Carlo  you  were  alone.?" 

"I  don't  quite  understand,  Miss  Gorham." 

"  I  mean,  did  you  travel  to  Monte  Carlo  by  yourself?  " 

Surprise  at  the  question  made  Charles's  "No,  I 
did  n't"  sound  rather  awkward.  Alison's  heart  sank. 
But  she  was  going  to  make  sure  that  there  was  no  mis- 
take or  misunderstanding  when  Charles  interrupted  her. 

"I  should  have  travelled  by  myself  if  it  hadn't 
chanced  that  I  shared  a  compartment  with  a  man  I'd 
met  some  months  before  —  a  man  called  Bain.  We 
struck  up  a  friendship  then,  and  continued  it  at  Monte 
Carlo  afterwards.  But  please  tell  me  why  you  ask.  Do 
you  know  him,  by  any  chance.''" 

"No,  Mr.  Caerleon,  I  don't.  But  surely  you  had 
other  friends  on  the  train  and  at  Monte  Carlo.?" 

"I  did  n't  see  anyone  else  I  knew  on  the  train.  At 
Monte  Carlo  I'd  lots  of  friends,  but  I  did  my  best  to 
avoid  them.  I  hardly  spoke  to  a  soul  except  Bain  and 
one  or  two  people  he  knew.  But  do  please  tell  me,  if  you 
don't  mind,  the  reason  of  your  questions." 


HAPPY  LOVE  IN  THE  TUILERIES  GARDENS    355 

Alison  felt  she  in  turn  had  to  be  frank.  "I  asked 
because  I  saw  in  the  train  —  and  it  was  that  that  made 
me  take  Constance  away  without  waiting  for  you  to 
start  —  the  same  girl  whom  I  had  seen  two  or  three 
nights  before  at  the  Abbaye  de  Theleme,  and  whom 
Papa  and  I  knew  you'd  been  talking  to.  I  thought 
you'd  arranged  to  meet  her  on  that  train,  and  I  was 
angry,  hurt  if  you  like,  that  you  should  have  allowed 
me  to  come  to  see  you  off  in  those  circumstances." 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Gorham,  for  telling  me.  May  I 
explain. f*  I  did  n't  see  that  girl  in  the  train;  I  had  no 
idea  she  was  there."  He  was  on  the  point  of  adding 
that  he  believed  she  'd  got  out  at  Marseilles,  but  he  had 
enough  sense  to  stop  the  words  in  time.  "I  don't  think 
she  was  at  Monte  Carlo.  As  for  what  happened  at  the 
Abbaye,  it  was  an  accident";  and  very  briefly  he  told 
Alison  what  had  occurred  on  that  evening,  adding,  "I 
did  n't  and  don't  even  know  her  name,  to  say  nothing 
of  her  address." 

Another,  an  older,  woman  might  have  asked  him  if 
he  had  seen  the  girl  since.  Luckily  Alison  did  n't. 
Charles  was  relieved.  He  had  experience  enough  to 
know  that  that  way  danger  lay,  and  an  even  greater 
misunderstanding.  And  he  had,  in  effect,  nothing  to 
conceal.  The  more  need  to  conceal  it,  wisdom  told  him. 
But  how  he  hated  having  to  conceal  anything.  Poor 
yellow  head!  So  good,  so  harmless,  and  destined  for 
so  much  trouble.  Alison  looked  frankly  at  him.  "I'm 
glad  —  and  you'll  forgive  me."  For  a  little  while  they 
walked  in  silence. 

"Miss  Gorham,  is  it  too  cold  for  us  to  sit  down  for 


3S6  CAVIARE 

a  minute  or  two?  I  too  have  something  I  want  to  ask 
you."  They  had  walked  to  and  fro,  and  were  now  near 
the  round  pond  on  which  the  httle  Parisians  sail  their 
little  boats.  They  found  unoccupied  chairs  under  the 
statue  of  Diana. 

Charles  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion.  Alison, 
stirring  uneasily,  quivered  as  if  the  night  were  cold. 

"Miss  Gorham,  I  have  something  to  ask  you.  You 
must  answer  me  as  frankly  as  I  answered  you.  Won't 
you  take  the  right  to  ask  me  questions  for  all  your  life.? 
I  love  you  —  I  have  loved  you  ever  since  I  saw  you  come 
into  the  Cafe  de  Paris  three  weeks  ago.  All,  all  my 
thoughts  have  been  for  you.  Can  you  care  for  me?  " 

Alison  had  turned  away  her  face.  She  was  looking  at 
the  ground,  at  the  little  hole  she  was  digging  in  the 
gravel  with  the  tip  of  her  umbrella.   A  minute  passed. 

"Alison  ..."  Charles  knew  no  more  to  say. 

And  then  slowly  her  right  hand,  a  shy  brown  mouse 
of  a  hand,  came  from  the  muff  that  lay  on  her  lap  and 
held  itself  open  for  his. 

But  even  before  he  could  take  it  she  had  drawn  it 
away.  Now  she  turned  her  face  towards  him.  He  could 
see  that  she  had  been  crying.  Tears  were  still  in  her 
eyes.  But  they  were  happy  tears. 

"No,  dear,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  want  to  give  you 
my  hand  gloved.  It  is  too  much  yours  for  that."  Her 
glove  was  off  by  now,  and  her  fingers  answered  to  his. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A   CLEARING   UP 

I  HAVE  known  odd  people,  financiers,  bankers,  men 
who  were  in  the  habit  of  deahng  with  large  sums, 
who  have  been  terrified  at  the  fact  that  they  have 
had  at  some  unusual  moment  to  carry  money,  real 
money,  in  their  pockets  —  a  few  hundred  pounds,  I 
mean.  They  seem  to  imagine  that  the  lynx-eyed  crimi- 
nal detects  its  presence,  and  they've  told  me  they've 
bolted  along  Threadneedle  Street,  run  into  the  Tube, 
have  tried  to  sit  by  themselves  in  the  carriage,  and 
have  n't  breathed  till  the  burden  has  been  handed  over. 
In  America,  where  every  man  carries  a  roll  —  if  he  can 
afford  to  —  such  fear  does  n't  exist,  I  suppose. 

In  this  matter  Charles  had  the  American  habit.  The 
truth  was  that  he  had  n't  a  nervous  mind,  and  yet  it  did 
occur  to  him  the  next  morning  when  he  let  himself  in 
to  his  lonely  flat  at  half -past  six  and  cleared  his  pockets 
prior  to  taking  a  bath  and  changing  his  clothes,  that  he 
might  well  have  been  worried  at  carrying  about  Messrs. 
Morgan  and  Company's  cheque  for  over  a  million. 
There  was  no  need  now,  however,  to  fret  about  that.  It 
was  there  safe  enough  in  his  letter-case.  Of  course  it 
might  have  been  stolen,  but  it  had  n't  been.  And  even 
if  it  had,  he  supposed  the  thief  would  n't  have  been  able 
to  do  anything  with  it:  he  had  done  his  best  to  render 
it  unnegotiable. 


3S8  CAVIARE 

Once  more  he  had  to  hustle.  AHson  and  he  the 
previous  evening  had  gone  back  to  the  hotel  from  the 
Tuileries  Gardens,  and  he'd  left  her  at  the  door.  He 
was  to  return  to  Paris  on  the  eleven-o'clock  train, 
and  to  dine  with  her  that  evening  —  with  her  and  Mrs, 
Phillips ;  and  what  had  happened  between  them  was  to  be 
no  secret.  In  the  mean  time  banks  open  at  nine  o'clock; 
the  eleven  train  goes  from  Victoria  —  a  good  long  way 
away  from  the  Strand.  The  operation  of  clearing  a 
cheque  for  such  a  sum  and  arranging  for  the  cabling  of  a 
million  pounds  was  likely  to  make  a  big  hole  in  a  couple 
of  hours.  But  Charles  caught  his  train. 

At  the  Meurice  at  eight  o'clock  he  learned  that  Mr. 
Gorham  was  much  better.  Charles  alone  had  the  key 
to  the  reason.  He  saw  no  necessity  for  giving  it  either 
to  Alison  or  to  her  friend.  Indeed,  not  yet  —  if  ever  — 
did  he  realise  what  he  had  done.  He  'd  given  away  — 
pitched  away,  some  of  his  friends  would  tell  him  if  they 
knew,  which  they  never  would  —  a  million  pounds. 
For  a  moment,  let  me  confess,  he  wondered  whether  he  'd 
bought  Mr.  Gorham's  acquiescence  in  his  suit  with  this 
timely  assistance.  His  good  sense  told  him  better.  Mr. 
Gorham  had  asked  for  his  return  from  America,  he  felt 
sure,  just  because,  believing  himself  to  be  stricken 
fatally,  he  wanted  Charles  to  win,  and  to  shield,  his 
daughter.  He  had  n't  known,  he  could  n't  have  sus- 
pected, Charles's  changed  fortunes.  And  after  all,  what 
was  the  million?  It  was  that  two  hundred  pounds  that 
he  'd  taken  to  Monte  Carlo  three  weeks  ago.  And  he  had 
still  more  money  lying  at  his  bank  than  he  had  ever  im- 
agined himself  having,  more  than  he  could  use.    But 


A   CLEARING   UP  359 

again,  Mr.  Gorham's  reverses  would,  it  was  likely,  re- 
quire more  financing :  he  'd  said  he  was  more  than  five 
million  dollars  short.  Perhaps,  after  all,  not  so  much 
would  be  left  when  all  the  old  man's  anxieties  were 
cleared  away. 

Not  that  evening  was  Charles  to  see  Mr.  Gorham. 
The  old  man  had  been  better,  and  he  'd  looked  easier  all 
day.  He  had  even  spoken  a  few  words  to  Alison.  Now 
he  was  sleeping.  The  nurse  was  with  him.  He  would 
get  back  his  speech.  Doctor  Leduc  said,  and  he  would 
get  back  some  command  of  his  limbs,  but  always  he 
would  be  a  cripple;  he  would  never  be  able  to  walk. 
"His  recovery  is  marvellous.  Never  have  I  known  such 
a  case.  I  would  have  sworn  that  he  would  never  speak 
again." 

The  dinner  was  a  happy  one  —  oh,  how  much  happier 
than  that  other  they  had  taken,  all  three  together,  at  the 
same  table  on  the  day  Mr.  Gorham  disappeared !  Mrs. 
Phillips  had  ordered  some  white  roses  for  the  occasion, 
and  one  of  them  Alison  extracted  and  gave  to  Charles  for 
his  button-hole.  "My  first  gift  to  you,  dear,"  she  said. 
It  was  a  moment  of  joy.  Under  cover  of  the  table  he 
seized  her  hand,  and  when  she  withdrew  it  for  its  proper 
work  her  finger  sparkled  with  the  ring  he  had  made  time 
to  get  her  in  London.  Mrs.  Phillips  was  almost  as  happy 
as  they  were  themselves.  They  were  three  children, 
and  perhaps  they  did  not  think  very  much  of  the  old 
man  upstairs.   He  would  not  have  had  it  otherwise. 

In  the  morning  the  cable  that  Charles  feared  arrived. 
He  did  n't  have  the  anxiety  of  opening  it  himself.  It  had 
come  addressed  to  Alison,  and,  having  opened  it,  she 


36o  CAVIARE 

sent  it  on  to  Charles  with  a  brief  note  saying  that  as  he 
was  arranging  her  father's  affairs,  she'd  better  let  him 
have  it.  And  her  father  was  better.  And  would  he  come 
as  soon  as  ever  he  could.  And  would  he  —  please  — 
take  her  out  t(j, lunch.  "We  have,  dear,  so  much  to  talk 
of."  Then  the  cable.  It  amounted  to  a  plain  statement 
that  the  five  million  dollars  was  insufficient  to  cover 
Mr.  Gorham's  liabilities  by  another  million  and  a  half;  it 
might  be  less;  luckily  it  was  certain  that  it  could  n't  be 
more.  Charles  attended  to  the  message  at  once.  He  'd 
remained  a  business  man.  Anticipating  this  call,  he  'd 
arranged  a  code  with  Messrs.  Coutts,  and  he  was  able 
to  telegraph  to  them  to  cable  the  money  in  order  that 
it  might  be  in  New  York  when  the  day  began.  "  I  can 
tell  Mr.  Gorham  directly,  and  then  he  and  I  can  forget 
Michigan  and  Illinois."  He  had  no  regrets.  That  huge 
sum  had  come  in  such  a  way  that  he  had  never  realised 
its  existence,  had  never  handled  it  even  in  his  imagina- 
tion. Besides,  even  when  one  other  deduction  was  made, 
there 'd  be  enough  left  to  buy  a  house  and  furnish  it, 
and  perhaps  even  to  invest  something  against  that  fu- 
ture that  young  lovers  contemplate  with  so  little  care. 

And  that  other  deduction?  It  was  bound  up  with  the 
one  preoccupation  that  had^never  left  Charles  for  more 
than  an  hour  since  the  moment  he  had  failed  to  find  his 
little  French  friend  at  the  Hotel  Frontenac.  Something, 
something  he  must  do  for  her.  He  must  find  her  —  now, 
or  later.  At  the  moment,  perhaps,  she  was  prosperous, 
happy  in  her  way.  But  how  long  would  such  happiness 
last?  How  long,  indeed?  Health  goes,  and  youth.  But 
how  could  he  shield  her?   He  could  not,  indeed,  be  sure 


A  CLEARING   UP  361 

of  finding  her.  That  he  must  do  before  it  was  too  late. 
Already  he  had  tried  —  in  vain.  From  the  Meurice  over 
night  he  had  gone  —  a  strange  errand,  he  knew,  to 
follow  after  such  a  dinner  —  to  the  Abbaye.  Perhaps 
she  might  be  there.  But  no.  Neither  Albert  nor  his 
lieutenant  knew  her  from  his  description.  Charles  was 
persistent.  He'd  insisted  on  seeing  whether  on  that 
evening  when  he  and  the  Gorhams  had  supped  together, 
a  table  had  not  been  reserved  in  some  name  which  would 
enable  her  to  be  identified  and  traced.  It  was  fruitless. 
And  he  had  spent  uselessly  several  louis  in  following  up 
certain  clues  gained  from  the  list  of  the  Provence  pas- 
sengers, who  had  sailed  to  and  from  New  York  when  she 
had  sailed.  Certainly  the  name  of  Finot  did  n't  appear 
anywhere. 

Still,  it  could  only  be  a  question  of  time.  So  Charles 
now  set  to  work  to  make  provision  against  the  moment 
when  they  should  meet.  He  had  discovered  that  to  buy 
for  a  girl  of  say  twenty-four  an  annuity  of  twenty- 
five  thousand  francs  would  cost  twenty-two  thousand 
pounds.  That  sum  now  he  put  aside.  In  a  few  weeks  he 
would  have  a  search  made  for  her.  Perhaps  he  would 
advertise.  He  would  take  advice.  It  would,  he  sup- 
posed, be  necessary  that  he  should  see  her  once  —  once 
only.  He  would  tell  her  of  the  provision  he  had  made  for 
her;  he  would  thank  her;  that  would  be  all. 

And  soon  he  would  tell  Alison. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

IN  WHICH  THE  AMIABLE  CHARLES  IS  TOLD  TO  FORGET 
RESTAURANTS,  TRAVEL,  NEW  YORK,  PARIS  —  AND 
APPARENTLY   SUCCEEDS 

WHAT  more  is  there  to  add?  Very  little. 
Extricated  from  his  difficulties,  Mr,  Gor- 
ham  recovered  rapidly  —  to  a  point.  But 
his  place  was  a  long  chair,  and  he  who  had  been  so  vigor- 
ous did  everything  with  the  aid  of  a  nurse.  Always  he 
was  grateful  to  Charles,  but  he  yielded  to  his  wish  that 
Alison  should  n't  know  how  his  recovery  had  been 
brought  about.  He  talked  little,  and  that  with  difficulty. 
"I  want,"  he  said,  "to  rest.  No,  I  won't  go  back  to 
America.  Alison  shall  go  when  she  will,  but  she  shall  go 
without  me.  There  I  was  a  master;  I  won't  go  back  a 
cripple,  to  be  pointed  out  as  the  man  who  was  Cyrus 
K.  Gorham." 

But  Alison  had  no  wish  either  to  go  back  to  Philadel- 
phia —  for  the  present,  at  least  —  or  to  leave  her  father. 
"You  will  let  him  live  with  us,"  she  said  to  Charles. 
"Perhaps,  dear,  he  won't  be  here  so  very  long.  Cannot 
we  go  and  live  in  the  country.''  Cannot  we  have  a  small 
house  by  the  sea,  and  a  garden,  and  a  boat?  Let  us  for- 
get New  York  and  Paris,  restaurants,  travel.  Let  us  be 
quiet." 

And  Charles  was  content.  When  all  his  own  debts  had 
been  paid,  he  had,  as  he  had  hoped,  money  for  a  house 


NO  MORE  RESTAURANTS,  MO  MORE  TRAVEL  363 

—  and  to  spare;  and  he  had  another  nine  hundred  a 
year  to  add  to  his  income.  Partly  for  old  sake's  sake, 
partly  because  he  was  able  to  satisfy  himself  that  it  was 
a  perfectly  sound  security,  and  in  spite  of  his  determina- 
tion to  forget  Michigan  and  Illinois,  he  'd  invested  what 
capital  all  his  deductions  had  left  him  in  the  first  bonds 
of  that  railroad.  They  gave  a  good  return. 

Their  house  was  at  Helf ord  —  on  the  Helford  River  — 
a  cottage  with  its  rose-filled  garden  running  down  to 
the  river.  He  had  had  it  modernised.  An  American 
architect  had  done  it  —  with  reverence,  and  success. 
Among  the  other  things  that  Charles  had  brought  back 
from  New  York  was  a  determination  to  employ  an 
American  architect  if  ever  he  built  a  house,  and  a  de- 
termination that  that  architect  should  provide  a  bath- 
room for  each  chief  bedroom.  It  cost  a  deuce  of  a  lot, 
but  he  was  very  proud  of  the  result!  Also  he  did  carry 
out  his  determination  to  have  the  "New  York  Ameri- 
can" every  day.  Alison  sniffed  at  it  and  laughed  at  him; 
Mr.  Gorham  refused  to  look  at  it  —  and  read  it  regu- 
larly in  secret. 

It  was  a  day  in  June.  Charles  had  ridden  into  Fal- 
mouth and  had  come  back  rather  earlier  than  had  been 
expected.  Mr.  Gorham  had  been  wheeled  out  into  the 
little  terrace,  and  there  in  the  shade,  amid  clambering 
mesembryanthemums,  Charles  found  him  reading  the 
despised  sheet. 

"I've  caught  you,  sir." 

"It  was  a  name  on  the  page  that  attracted  me,"  Mr. 
Gorham  replied,  "or  I  would  n't  have  touched  the  paper. 


3^4  CAVIARE 

Do  you  remember  Mr.  Rolker  and  his  Italian  prince  son- 
in-law?  Well,  the  young  man  won't  live  in  America  any 
more.  He's  bringing  suit  against  his  wife  because  she 
declares  in  her  turn  that  she  won't  live  in  Italy.  I  said 
that  night  at  Paillard's  that  Rolker  was  a  fool.  I've 
done  better  than  Rolker,  my  boy;  but"  —  and  his  eyes 
twinkled  —  "I  said  the  same  evening  that  I  didn't 
think  you  could  ever  do  any  real  work;  and  I  was  right 
in  that,  too!" 

It  was  the  longest  speech  Mr.  Gorham  had  made. 
Charles  turned  to  Alison,  who  came  at  that  moment  to 
welcome  him,  put  his  arm  about  her  shoulders,  and 
laughed. 

"Dear  father-in-law,  you  did  n't  make  many  mis- 
takes: perhaps  you  were  right  about  me;  I  daresay  you 
had  reason.  But  I  have  Alison." 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


A  HOOSIER  CHRONICLE 

By  Meredith  Nicholson 

"  It  is  one  of  the  bravest,  sweetest,  most  optimistic 
books  in  which,  ever,  plain  truths  of  humanity  and 
history  have  been  mingled  with  the  weavings  of  fic- 
tion."—TV:  K   IVor/d. 

'*  Mr.  Nicholson  knows  whereof  he  writes,  and  the 
picture  of  the  political  and  social  life  of  the  capital 
which  he  gives  us  in  the  present  volume  is  vigorous 
and  convincing." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  puts  Mr.  Nicholson  in  the  front  rank  of  Amer- 
ican novelists  who  are  trying  to  produce  real  literature." 

—  Indianapolis  Star. 

"  In  *  A  Hoosier  Chronicle  '  he  has  done  something 
much  bigger,  and  given  us  a  work  of  fiction  of  a  rich- 
ly human  sort,  creating  real  characters  and  giving  us 
a  penetrating  study  of  political  life  and  domestic  rela- 
tions in  the  commonwealth  of  Indiana." —  The  Dial. 

Illustrated  in  color  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

Square  crown  8vo.      $1.40  net.     Postage  16  cents 


HOUGHTON  y^^-Z,  BOSTON 

MIFFLIN  /^^^  AND 


COMPANY  (ra  r/:ll  NEW  YORK 


A  SAFETY  MATCH 


By  IAN  HAY 


"  Delineates  the  progress  of  a  marriage  of  convenience  with 
an  agreeably  delicate  touch."  New  York  Sun, 

"  The  story  is  well  written  and  of  the  variety  which,  once  com- 
menced, keeps  the  candle  burning  regardless  of  the  hour  until 
;he  end."  Boston  Herald. 

*'  The  '  handsome  rectory  children '  of  the  early  chapters,  their 
vague  father,  and  their  muddled  but  affectionate  home  life,  are 
things  of  pure  joy."  London  Punch. 

"  Simple,  yet  strong,  and  strong  because  its  simplicity  is  na- 
tural, the  book  will  commend  itself  to  all  who  love  sane,  whole- 
some and  cheerful  fiction."  San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  There  is  humor  everywhere  of  the  sparkling  rather  than  the 
gleaming  variety,  and  it  makes  the  book  delightful  to  read." 

The  Dial. 

"  Its  homely,  human  humor,  and  its  wonderful  narrative  of 
events,  both  commonplace  and  extraordinary,  hold  the  in- 
terest of  the  reader  unswervingly  from  the  first  chapter  to  the 
last."  St.  Louis  Post-Dispatch. 

With  frontispiece  in  color. 

i2mo.    $1.20  net.     Postpaid,  $1.31 


HOUGHTON  /v^i  BOSTON 

MIFFUN  /6vf^  "^^ 

COMPANY  rala  NEW  YORK 


AA      000  205  080    5 

CENTRAL  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
University  of  California,  San  Diego 

DATE  DUE 

SEP  15  197^ 

III     1  Pi  ^^lf^l 

viUL  1  U    jM/c 

CI  39 

UCSD  Libr. 

